"MOTHER"  ROSS,  1923 


ALISON  T.  ROSS,  1910 


A  ROAD 
of  REMEMBRANCE 


By 

ELIZABETH  W.  ROSS 


Fifth  Printing 


POWELL  &  WHITE 

CINCINNATI,  OHIO 

1926 


COPYRIGHT    1821 

POWELL  &  WHITE 

CINCINNATI.   O 


To 

My  Friends,  Here,  There  and  Everywhere 
who  have  built  for  me,  as  the  Samoans  built  for  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  "The  Road  of  the  Loving  Hearts," 
To  you,  who  by  your  counsel,  confidence,  sym- 
pathy and  love,  have  been  to  me  the  Alpine 
guides   to   help   me   in   my  journey   up 
toward    the    hill    country    of    the 
Eternal  God, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED. 


£020071 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 
"Mother"  Ross  and  A.  T.  Ross Frontispiece 

Southern   Christian   Institute 39 

Lida's  Wood 48 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emory  Ross 85 

Betty  Ross 128 

Roger  Ross 134 

"Old  Baldy" *. 144 

Emory  and  Myrta  Ross  and  the 

Children,  1923  ..  ...147 


FOREWORD 

It  is  an  honor  and  privilege,  sincerely  ap- 
preciated, to  present  to  those  who  read  with 
their  hearts  and  minds  open  toward  the  sunrise, 
this  volume  of  human  experiences,  written  by 
one  whose  passage  to  and  fro  throughout  the 
land  has  brought  sunshine  and  fruitful  season 
into  the  life  and  work  of  score  upon  score  of 
churches,  and  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  in- 
dividual lives. 

Out  of  these  rich  years  of  incessant  service 
to  the  King,  His  church,  and  His  people, 
"Mother"  Ross  has  gathered  some  of  the  ex- 
periences and  soulful  messages  that  have  made 
her  presence  everywhere  a  rich  blessing  to  those 
with  whom  she  has  come  in  contact,  and  given 
them  permanent  form  in  this  delightful  little 
volume. 

Thousands  have  wept  and  laughed  with  her 
and  gone  on  their  way  with  hearts  all  aglow 
with  a  new  vision  of  the  Christ  and  this  wonder- 
ful world  in  which  we  are  privileged  to  live  and 
tell  of  Him. 

"Mother"  Ross  walks  and  talks  with  her 
Lord,  and  upon  the  pages  of  this  beautiful  life 


story  she  has  told  what  He  has  said  and  been 
to  her. 

There  is  small  need  that  any  word  should 
be  said  regarding  the  merits  of  this  "Story,"  for 
once  in  your  hand,  no  other  task  will  have  any 
charm  or  call  until  the  last  word  has  been  read. 

The  old  will  follow  these  pages  and  grow 
young  again;  the  young  will  race  through  its 
chapters  and  be  richer  and  wiser  for  their  gam- 
bol; all,  old  and  young,  saint  and  sinner,  will 
know  in  a  new  way  of  the  presence  and  power 
of  Him  who  has  strengthened  and  guided, 
cheered  and  blessed,  comforted  and  sustained 
the  author  through  cloud  and  sunshine,  over 
the  rough  and  tortuous  way  of  life. 

Our  hope  is  that  all  who  read  may  find 
Him  the  same  ever  faithful  and  satisfying 
Friend. 

WALTER  M.  WHITE, 

Memphis,  Tenn. 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 


"Our  lives  are  God's  gift  to  us;  what 
we   become  is  our  gift  to  Him." 


CHAPTER  I. 

On  February,  the  sixteenth,  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  fifty-two,  the  gates  of  life  swung  open 
for  me  and  I  started  on  my  earthly  pilgrimage. 
Now  my  day  is  shadowing  toward  the  West,  and  I 
will  soon  have  lived  out  my  allotted  years — three 
score  and  ten.  "Can't  none  of  us  help  what 
traits  we  start  out  with  but  we  can  help  what  we 
end  up  with,"  says  Mrs.  Wiggs.  As  I  look  back 
over  the  shining  wake,  I  am  humbled  to  think 
how  little  I  have  accomplished,  and  what  an  im- 
perfect gift  I  must  bring  back  to  Him.  I  would 
not,  however,  with  the  poet  cry  out: 

"Backward,  turn  backward, 

O,  Time,  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again 
Just  for  tonight." 

What  I  have  written,  I  have  written,  and  I  will 
trust  a  merciful,  loving  Father  to  blot  from  His 

11 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

book   of   remembrance   all   that  is  wrong  and 
sinful. 

My  mother's  name  was  Vashti  Cadwallader. 
She  was  named  for  the  queen,  but  she  was  never 
deposed,  but  reigned  queen  of  the  heart  of  her 
noble  husband,  Robert  Raper  Williams.  Eight 
children  were  born  to  this  mother,  but  only  five 
lived  to  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  these 
rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  My  mother  lost  her 
birthright  in  the  Quaker  Church  by  marrying  a 
man  outside  of  the  fold,  but  they  lived  together 
Godly  upright  lives,  and  strove  to  bring  up  their 
children  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the 
Lord.  I  have  reason  to  be  thankful  for  the  herit- 
age my  parents  left  me,  and  the  memory  of  my 
childhood  is  sweet  and  pleasant.  A  dear  Quaker 
grandmother  taught  us  to  say  "thee"  and  "thou," 
and  to  turn  the  left  cheek  if  we  were  smitten  on 
the  right,  and  many  other  gracious  and  beautiful 
lessons. 

I  went  to  school  in  the  quaint  Quaker 
meeting  house.  "Every  institution  is  but  the 
lengthened  shadow  of  a  man,"  says  some  one.  I 
know  whoever  selected  the  site  of  that  meeting 
house  had  the  love  of  God  in  his  heart.  The 
house  is  built  on  a  hill,  surrounded  by  great 
trees,  and  a  stream  of  sparkling  water  made 
music  all  day  long.  Some  evergreens  taught  us 
of  immortality — 

12 


//  Road  of  Remembrance 

"There,  changeless,  all  the  seasons  through, 
Those  green  cathedrals  lift  their  spires; 

The  first  to  catch  the  morning  dew, 
The  last  to  hold  the  evening  fires." 

I  think  my  sympathies  for  the  black  race 
were  started  by  hearing  the  grandmother  sing, 
"Po'  Little  Black  Sheep,"  and  fifty  years  after- 
ward, when  I  heard  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar  give 
his  poem,  I  thought  he  must  be  a  plagiarist — he 
surely  must  have  learned  it  from  my  grand- 
mother. My  first  missionary  work  was  done 
under  the  direction  of  this  saintly  woman.  I 
made  a  "housewife" — a  leather  book,  furnished 
with  needles,  pins,  buttons,  tapes  and  other 
necessary  articles — and  sent  it  to  a  soldier  of  the 
Civil  War. 

Our  First  Day  school  offered  a  premium  of 
a  book  to  the  child  who  would  commit  to 
memory  the  greatest  number  of  Bible  verses.  I 
won  by  reciting  seven  hundred  verses  and 
formed  the  habit  that  has  followed  me  through 
all  the  years — that  of  committing  to  memory 
something  each  day,  scripture,  poetry  or 
foolishness,  for  it  is  good  to  have  a  varied 
diet.  I  heard  a  modern  teacher  say  recently 
that  it  is  not  wise  for  a  child  to  commit 
verses  of  scripture — it  is  a  parrot-like  perform- 
ance— they  do  not  understand  what  it  means.  But 

13 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

I  must  differ  from  him.  "Thy  word  have  1  hid 
in  my  heart,"  said  the  psalmist,  and  so  have  I, 
and  while  I  did  not  at  the  time  understand  all 
that  I  said,  the  years'  experiences  have  inter- 
preted to  me  many  hidden  meanings.  When  I 
am  sick,  I've  a  great  physician ;  when  in  sorrow, 
a  comforter;  when  in  doubt  and  perplexity,  a 
mighty  counselor;  when  forsaken  by  friends,  a 
friend  that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother;  when 
I've  been  thirsty,  I've  found  the  living  water; 
when  hungry,  the  bread  of  life ;  when  weary  and 
worn  with  travel,  a  pilgrim's  staff;  when  lost 
and  wandering,  a  shepherd  of  my  soul;  a  Father 
at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances.  It  is 
the  Book  of  books,  the  word  of  life,  a  lamp  unto 
my  feet.  Some  times  we  read  of  the  best  sellers, 
but  here  is  the  best  seller  every  day  in  the  year — 
35,000,000  copies  published  last  year — presses 
running  day  and  night.  "The  entrance  of  Thy 
word  giveth  light." 

I  thank  my  God  upon  every  remembrance  of 
the  faithful  teachers  I  had  in  that  Quaker  Sun- 
day School  at  Newport,  now  Fountain  City, 
Indiana. 

Every  Fourth  Day  we  pupils  of  the  day 
school  were  taken  into  the  meeting-house  to 
worship.  Sometimes  not  a  word  was  spoken 
during  the  hour.  More  than  once  have  I  been 
led  up  into  the  gallery  to  sit  by  my  elders  to  see 

14 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

If  I  could  quit  laughing  and  squirming  around. 
I  loved  the  dear  woman  who  rebuked  me  so 
much  that  I  never  felt  the  sting  of  punishment, 
but  was  rather  elated  over  being  in  a  high  seat 
overlooking  the  other  girls.  This  dear  Aunt 
Mary  Parker  had  the  sweetest,  saintliest  face 
and  I  remember  telling  my  mother  that  when 
I  was  a  woman  grown,  I'd  have  a  long,  stiff,  grey 
silk  bonnet  like  Aunt  Mary's,  only  I'd  have  pink 
ties  on  mine. 

I  have  never  forgotten,  "A  soft  answer 
turneth  away  wrath,"  as  given  by  Aunt  Mary 
once  when  I  had  struck  and  scratched  a  boy  who 
had  been  imposing  on  a  younger  schoolmate. 

My  first  teacher  was  Mary  Hough,  afterward 
Mrs.  Mary  Hough  Goddard,  an  eminent  preacher 
in  the  Friends'  Church.  I  almost  idolized  her. 
She  was  the  acme  of  excellence  to  me — she  em- 
bodied all  the  virtues.  On  that  first  day  of 
school,  I  was  told  that  I  must  have  a  slate.  My 
father  did  not  approve  of  this. 

"What  does  a  five  year  old  child  need 
with  a  slate?"  I  heard  him  say.  I  was  shocked 
at  the  audacity  of  my  father  daring  to  differ 
from  my  teacher.  The  slate  was  provided  and  I 
learned  to  write  my  ABCs  in  a  short  time.  My 
father  was  greatly  pleased  and  surprised  at  my 
advance.  Even  at  that  early  age  I  felt  that 

IS 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

womanly  prerogative  stirring  in  my  soul,  say- 
ing: "I  told  you  so." 

We  were  expected  to  call  everybody  by  their 
first  names — the  titles  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  were  not 
tolerated — they  savored  of  pride.  So  I  was 
taught  to  speak  of  Daniel  and  Emily  Hough, 
Harvey  and  Sallie  Davis,  although  they  were 
then  grey  with  years.  The  conversation  of  the 
Quakers  was  Yea,  Yea  and  Nay,  Nay.  One  of  my 
ancestors  was  tried  in  the  Quaker  Church  for  the 
ungodly  practice  of  wearing  suspenders.  My 
grandfather  was  one  of  a  committee  to  labor 
with  a  man  for  wearing  shoe  strings  with  tips 
on  them.  But  the  committee  was  convinced 
that  that  was  a  contrivance  that  was  really  use- 
ful, one  that  expedited  the  matter  of  lacing 
shoes;  so  instead  of  converting  the  wayward 
brother,  they  were  led  into  the  same  folly  of 
wearing  tipped  shoe  strings. 

The  first  wedding  ceremony  I  ever  witnessed 
was  in  that  Quaker  Church.  The  young  people 
stood  and  the  man  said:  "I,  James  T.  Wright, 
in  the  presence  of  God  and  before  this  assem- 
bly, take  thee,  Elizabeth  E.  Rogers,  to  be  my 
lawful  and  wedded  wife,  promising  to  be  unto 
thee  a  loving  and  faithful  husband  until  death 
shall  separate  us."  Then  the  young  woman 
made  the  same  vow.  I  like  that  simple  declara- 
tion, made  by  the  parties  most  concerned,  better 

16 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

than  to  have  the  preacher  ask  a  long  rigmarole 
of  questions  to  which  contracting  parties  just 
say,  "I  do." 

I  had  a  teacher,  too,  in  a  Methodist  Sunday 
School  whom  I  greatly  admired.  She  had  a 
small  wen  in  the  part  of  her  hair,  and  I  often 
wished  that  I  might  have  one  too,  so  I  could  look 
good  and  kind  and  great  like  this  woman. 

A  neighbor  in  this  village  kept  bees,  and  had 
quantities  of  honey  put  away  in  stone  jars  in  the 
attic.  A  daughter  of  the  house  and  I  made  a  raid 
on  that  honey  once,  with  dire  results — we  ate  too 
much.  I  can't  look  at  honey  to  this  day  with- 
out having  the  colic. 

I  visited  Fountain  City  recently.  I  wanted 
to  wade  in  the  branch  and  drink  from  the  spring. 
I  knew  how  David  felt  when  he  longed  for  the 
water  of  the  well  of  Bethlehem.  I  munched  spear- 
mint delightedly,  remembering  how  I  used  to 
love  it  in  childhood,  and  now  I  love  it,  not  for  its 
own  sake,  but  because  that  child  was  fond  of  it. 
I  gathered  Black-eyed  Susans  and  Queen  Ann's 
lace  and  all  the  wild  flowers  growing  there. 
How  could  we  do  without  them?  Life  deprived 
of  them  would  be  appalling  barrenness.  I  looked 
for  a  hollow  log  where  tlie  old  black  nurse  told 
me,  sixty-three  years  ago,  they  got  my  baby 
brother. 

17 


A  Ro<td  of  Remembrance 

"Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise; 
We  love  the  play  place  of  our  early  days. 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone, 
That  feels  not  at  the  sight,  and  feels  at  none." 

Cowper. 

When  I  was  in  my  teens,  I  was  sent  away 
to  Dayton,  Ohio,  to  a  Young  Ladies'  Seminary  of 
the  Presbyterian  Church.  I  made  many  dear 
friends  during  the  years  spent  there.  One  of  the 
closest  was  Miss  Lydia  Walker,  who  was  gradu- 
ated from  that  school  and  went  out  to  Africa  in 
the  early  seventies.  All  these  years  she  has  been 
there  telling  of  the  unsearchable  riches  of 
Christ.  She  and  her  illustrious  husband,  Dr.  A.  C. 
Good,  have  been  among  the  most  noted  mis- 
sionaries of  the  earth.  The  Elat  Mission  in 
Kameruns  is  the  fruit  of  their  unremitting  toil. 
My  correspondence  with  this  friend  has  deepened 
my  interest  in  missions  in  all  fields,  but  especi- 
ally in  Africa.  One  of  the  teachers  in  this  Pres- 
byterian School  used  always  to  say  in  her  prayer 
on  Sunday  morning:  "Dear  Lord,  may  we 
walk  softly  before  Thee  this  day,  lest  we  sin." 
That  prayer  has  been  a  factor  in  my  life  toward 
reverence  for  the  Lord's  day. 

About  this  time  I  united  with  the  Christian 
Church,  Disciples.  Readers  will  note  by  the  fore- 
going record  that  the  Interchurch  Movement 

18 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

had  taken  place  in  my  life  many  years  ago  and 
so  it  was  not  hard  for  me  half  a  century  later  to 
welcome  any  movement  that  favored  united 
effort  of  Christ's  followers  to  make  a  survey  of 
the  world's  need  and  together  try  to  combat  the 
evils  of  the  world  and  to  alleviate  its  misery.  All 
such  co-operation  will  but  hasten  the  day  for 
which  our  Lord  prayed:  "That  they  may  all  be 
one,  Father,  as  Thou  art  in  me  and  I  in  Thee, 
that  the  world  may  believe  that  Thou  didst  send 
me."  My  life  has  been  enriched  and  blest  by 
knowing  so  many  faithful  men  and  women. 

I  came  from  that  Seminary  in  Dayton,  Ohio, 
to  Union  City,  Indiana,  where  I  taught  in  the 
public  schools  four  years. 

The  State  Superintendent  of  Public  Schools 
once  visited  us  and  pronounced  my  work  ex- 
ceptionally good.  He  wrote  for  the  State 
Journal : 

"Miss  Elizabeth  Williams,  of  the  Union 
City  Schools,  is  the  best  primary  teacher  in  the 
State  of  Indiana." 

I  cut  out  this  statement,  pasted  it  in  my 
scrap  book,  and  it  has  been  my  life  credential. 
Whenever  my  family  have  been  at  all  uppish 
toward  me,  I  remind  them  of  what  I  have 
been. 


19 


CHAPTER  II. 

May  the  twenty-first,  eighteen  hundred  and 
seventy-four,  was  my  wedding  day.  For  thirty- 
nine  years  I  walked  life's  way  with  A.  T.  Ross 
as  my  beloved  husband.  There  were  varied 
scenes  and  experiences  through  those  years,  but 
with  an  undying  love  for  each  other  and  a  con- 
fident and  unfaltering  trust  in  our  Heavenly 
Father,  the  years  were  blest.  Life  has  been  a 
braver,  truer  thing  because  we  passed  it  hand  in 
hand,  than  if  we  had  passed  it  alone. 

It  was  the  time  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  bridal 
wreath,  lilacs  and  the  sweet  wild  flowers  of  the 
woods — this  happy  day  that  we  set  up  our  home 
in  Winchester.  Just  a  year  later,  the  same  sweet 
odors  greeted  me  as  I  opened  my  eyes  in  a 
shaded  room  and  saw,  I  thought,  just  banks  of 
lilies  of  the  valley  high  as  the  ceiling,  and  I 
faintly  discerned  a  little  white  casket  covered 
with  flowers.  Then  I  went  down  into  the  valley 
and  shadow,  and  twelve  hours  afterward  came 
back  to  find  that  they  had  carried  away  the  child 
of  my  heart. 

"The  Passing  of  Our  First  Born,"  as  written 
by  Dr.  William  Dubois,  is  one  of  the  most  pa- 
thetic things  in  all  the  English  language.  His 

20 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

pen  was  dipped  in  his  heart's  blood  as  he  wrote 
it. 

"In  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold 
the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

We  lived  in  Winchester,  Indiana,  one  year, 
then  moved  to  Kendallville.  Mr.  Ross's  people 
lived  in  Winchester,  father,  mother,  two  brothers 
and  three  sisters.  The  oldest  sister,  Myra,  was  a 
singer  with  deep  contralto  voice.  She  delighted 
in  sacred  music  and  sang  often  and  in  many 
places  in  evangelistic  meetings.  Her  singing 
won  many  souls  to  decide  for  Christ  and  His 
Church.  Her  ardent  love  of  music  instilled  the 
same  passion  into  the  hearts  of  her  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  and  her  sister  and  two  brothers 
consituted  the  choir  of  the  Methodist  Church  at 
Winchester  for  many  years.  Their  singing 
"Nearer  My  God,  to  Thee,"  to  the  tune  of  Robin 
Adair,  was  one  of  the  sweetest  songs  I've  ever 
heard.  They  have  all  gone  now  "To  join  that 
invisible  choir  whose  music  is  the  gladness  of 
the  world." 

Mr.  Ross'  grandmother  was  a  great,  strong, 
fearless  soul.  It  was  in  the  days  when  the  Cru- 
sade fires  swept  the  country.  I  was  urged  to  join 
the  older  women  and  go  sing  and  pray  in  the 
saloons.  We  went  one  day,  and  just  as  we  were 
about  to  leave,  the  saloon  keeper  thought  he'd 
lock  the  door  and  keep  us.  We  all  walked  out 

21 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

but  Grandmother — the  door  was  shut  and  she 
was  kept  a  prisoner  all  day.  She  had  her  knit- 
ting with  her,  and  she  sang  and  knelt  down  and 
prayed  and  knitted,  and  passed  an  enjoyable  and 
profitable  day.  They  served  her  a  hot  lunch  at 
noon,  and  treated  her  with  great  respect.  She 
always  told  with  glee  that  she  kept  men  from 
drinking  one  whole  day.  In  just  a  few  weeks 
that  saloon  keeper  sold  out  and  quit  business. 
He  told  that  the  sight  of  that  old  woman  on  her 
knees,  praying  that  God  would  convict  him,  kept 
him  awake  at  night  and  he  had  no  peace  of 
mind  from  that  day  until  he  quit  selling 
whisky. 

Those  were  tempestuous  days.  Reformed 
men  like  John  B.  Gough  and  Luther  Benson 
traversed  the  country  with  their  matchless 
words  against  the  liquor  traffic.  The  Woman's 
Christian  Temperance  Union  was  organized, 
which  proved  to  be  a  vine  of  the  Lord's  own 
planting;  it  grew  and  grew  until  four  hundred 
thousand  women  were  numbered  with  the 
"White  Ribbon  Hosts,"  and  they  in  turn  organ- 
ized and  educated  and  agitated  until  the  slogan 
adopted  by  the  Christian  Endeavor  Society  in 
1915,  "A  Saloonless  Nation  in  1920,"  was 
brought  to  pass  and  the  nefarious  business  was 
forever  banished  from  our  land. 

One  of  the  foremost  advocates  and  speakers 
22 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

in  these  days  was  Mrs.  Zerelda  Wallace,  widow 
of  Gov.  David  Wallace,  of  Indiana,  step-mother 
of  General  Lew  Wallace.  She  was  a  guest  in 
our  home  once,  when  she  came  to  speak  on 
Temperance  and  Suffrage.  She  was  past  her 
four  score  years,  but  possessed  a  masterful  mind 
and  wonderful  fluency  of  speech.  Her  hair  was 
white  and  curly;  she  wore  it  short.  She  had  a 
strong  face  that  one  never  could  forget.  She 
wore  a  black  dress  with  white  fichu  folded  over 
her  breast  and  a  long  black  alpaca  apron,  and 
carried  a  Bible  in  her  hand.  The  Word  of  God 
was  her  authority,  and  the  way  she  would  ring 
out  the  "Woe  of  Almighty  God"  in  scathing,  fiery 
words,  was  enough  to  make  King  Alcohol  trem- 
ble. He  did  tremble  and  fall,  and  we  owe  much 
to  these  dauntless  pioneers,  who,  in  the  face  of 
scorn  and  suspicion  and  ridicule,  went  forth  to 
champion  this  unpopular  cause. 

One  time  at  a  W.  C.  T.  U.  Convention  in 
Bloomington,  Indiana,  Mrs.  Zerelda  Wallace  and 
I  were  entertained  for  four  days  in  the  home  of 
Prof,  and  Mrs.  Amzi  Atwater.  She  told  me  a 
sweet  story  of  her  life.  She  married  Governor 
Wallace  and  became  the  mother  of  his  four  chil- 
dren, Lew  being  the  youngest.  The  boy  was  a 
sore  trial  to  all  of  them.  He  would  run  off  from 
school,  sit  on  a  fence  or  loll  on  the  grass,  and  talk 
to  the  birds  and  bees  all  day.  He  would  follow  a 

23 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

brass  band  and  be  lost  for  hours  at  a  time.  He 
came  to  manhood  and  wrote  the  marvelous  story 
of  "Ben  Hur."  He  brought  the  manuscript  to  his 
mother  to  read  critically.  When  she  had  finished, 
he  came  for  it,  and  she  said:  "Lew,  where  did 
you  ever  conceive  that  character,  the  mother  of 
Ben  Hur?"  Great  bearded  man  that  he  was,  he 
put  his  arm  about  her  and  said:  "Mother,  I 
thought  of  you  every  minute."  Gen.  Lew  Wallace 
himself  said  that  if  he  possessed  any  literary 
talent,  he  owed  it  to  the  impress  of  the  great, 
strong  intellect  of  his  mother  upon  his  receptive 
mind. 

"Wonderful  how  life  touches  life,  and  how 
boundless  influence  is." 

We  heard  great  lectures  in  those  days.  I 
sat  on  a  hard  wooden  bench  and  listened  to 
Joseph  Cook  for  two  hours  on  "Ultimate  Amer- 
ica." He  had  a  prophet's  vision  and  a  seer's 
sympathy  as  he  pictured  to  us  our  Country's 
future  achievements. 

Jehu  DeWitt  Miller,  the  ugliest  man  I  ever 
saw,  spoke  to  us  in  our  Lecture  Course  on  "The 
Uses  of  Ugliness."  He  was  familiar  with  his 
subject. 

Susan  B.  Anthony  spoke  in  our  town. 
"Woman,  thou  hast  been  faithful  in  a  few  things, 
now  God  is  going  to  make  you  ruler  over  many 
things,"  she  said.  Some  women  in  our  town 

24 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

scorned  her.     In  another  city  they  stoned  Miss 
Anthony.    This  did  not  deter  her. 

"Master,  the  Jews  of  late  sought  to  stone 
Thee  and  goest  Thou  thither  again?"  We  never 
really  know  our  Master  until  we  toil  amid  the 
hurling  stones.  A  scarlet  thread  runs  through 
every  reform. 

Dr.  Russell  Conwell  told  us  of  "Acres  of 
Diamonds."  I've  found  a  heap  of  them  in  the 
common  walks  of  life. 

I  heard  many  of  the  great  preachers  of  the 
Restoration  movement,  too.  My  father's  house 
was  the  preacher's  home.  I  had  great  reverence 
for  the  ministers  of  the  manifold  grace  of  God. 
When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  loved  to  hear  them  talk 
and  tell  stories.  Some  of  them  chewed  tobacco, 
and  I'd  watch  them  spit  on  the  fenders  and  see 
it  sizz.  It  made  my  older  sister  mad.  I  thought 
she  was  wicked  to  rail  out  about  the  preacher 
and  call  him  filthy. 

I  heard  some  great  singers,  and  went  to  a 
few  good  plays.  Maggie  Mitchell,  Mary  Ander- 
son, Lawrence  Barrett  and  Edwin  Booth  were  at 
the  height  of  their  careers  and,  as  I  recall,  their 
plays  were  uplifting. 

All  of  these  varied  experiences  have  gone 
to  make  my  life.  I  used  to  teach  a  kindergarten 
verse  to  my  little  folks.  It  is  good  for  grownups, 
too: 

25 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"Out  of  each  moment,  some  good  we  obtain, 
Something  to  winnow  and  scatter  again ; 
All  that  we  look  at,  all  that  we  read, 
All  that  we  think  about  is  gathering  seed." 

In  1877,  a  tiny  baby  girl  came  to  gladden  our 
lives  for  fourteen  months ;  then  she  slipped  away 
"Into  the  everlasting  gardens,  where  angels 
walk  and  seraphs  are  the  wardens."  A  box  in 
my  trunk  contains  a  pair  of  little  blue  shoes,  a 
chain  and  locket  with  a  lock  of  golden  hair  in  it, 
a  ring  with  "Bessie"  engraved  upon  it,  and  these 
reminders  have  been  very  precious  to  me.  I 
have  sometimes  passed  the  house  of  a  stranger 
and  have  seen  them  carrying  out  a  little  white 
casket,  and  at  such  times  I  have  been  sure  to 
open  up  the  box  in  the  trunk  and  brood  over  it — 
not  with  anguish  in  these  later  years,  but  with 
the  glad  thought  that  we  have  two  baby  children 
in  heaven  waiting  for  us. 

"Heaven  is  nearer 
And  Christ  is  dearer 
Than   yesterday,   to  me." 

In  the  summer  of  1882  and  '83,  the  National 
Conventions  of  the  Christian  Church  were  held 
at  Island  Park,  Indiana,  seven  miles  from  our 
home  at  Kendallville.  I  think  some  scenes  I 
witnessed  at  those  gatherings  made  the  most 

26 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

profound  impressions  on  my  heart  of  anything  I 
ever  experienced. 

Jamaica  is  the  first  born  of  the  Mission 
Stations  of  our  Woman's  Board.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
W.  H.  Williams,  of  Platte  City,  Missouri,  were 
sent  to  Jamaica  in  1876.  The  Island  being  under 
English  control,  the  people  speaking  the  English 
language,  and  the  Island  being  so  near  us,  it 
seemed  more  like  a  home  than  a  foreign  mission. 
But  this  was  the  occasion  of  the  setting  apart  of 
our  first  missionaries  to  a  foreign  field,  for  while 
we  had  accepted  the  slogan,  "Where  the  Bible 
speaks,  we  speak,  and  where  the  Bible  is  silent, 
we  are  silent,"  we  had  been  strangely  silent  as  to 
the  great  commission  given  by  our  Lord  on  the 
Mount  of  Ascension. 

There  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G.  W.  Wharton 
ordained  to  go  to  preach  the  Gospel  to  India. 
The  Christian  Woman's  Board  of  Missions  was 
sending  out  its  first  messengers  to  India,  Misses 
Mary  Graybiel,  Mary  Kingsbury,  Ada  Boyd  and 
Laura  Kinsey. 

I  watched  the  stately,  beautiful  mother  of 
Mary  Graybiel  lay  her  hands  upon  her  daughter's 
head  while  the  princely  Isaac  Errett  offered  to 
God  the  prayer,  ordaining  Mary  to  "Go  tell."  It 
was  a  touching  sight.  In  my  heart  I  questioned 
how  a  mother  could  do  it,  and  I  had  a  faint 
suspicion  that  God  surely  did  not  require  that  at 

27 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

the  hands  of  a  widowed  mother.  But,  as  I  re- 
member, I  never  joined  the  throng  who  openly 
declared  that  it  was  fanatical  and  an  uncalled- 
for  sacrifice.  There  was  such  an  awe  in  my  soul 
that  I  can  feel  it  to  this  day  whenever  I  recall 
that  marvelous  scene.  It  may  have  been  a  pre- 
monition of  what  was  coming  to  me  in  after 
years. 

Brother  Wharton  and  Ada  Boyd  spent  many 
years  carrying  the  Water  of  Life  to  the  people 
who  were  dying  of  soul  thirst  out  in  India,  and 
then  they  went  home  to  God. 

Mrs.  Wharton,  Mary  Graybiel  and  Laura 
Kinsey  Mitchell  gave  valiant  service  till  failing 
health  compelled  them  to  return  to  the  home 
land.  Here  they  are  used  mightily  for  our  God 
in  interesting  others  and  inspiring  them  to  go. 

It  has  been  given  to  Mary  Kingsbury  to 
serve  the  longest  of  any  of  the  missionaries  of 
the  Disciples — thirty-seven  years.  Her  life  has 
been  a  savor  of  life  unto  life  in  "India,  Sad 
India."  We  do  not  wonder  that  Bilaspur's  most 
distinguished  barrister,  a  high  cast  Hindu 
gentleman,  took  the  garland  of  flowers  that  was 
intended  for  his  head,  and  said:  "It  is  not  for 
me,  but  for  one  more  worthy,"  and  put  the 
flowers  upon  the  head  of  Miss  Kingsbury,  Mama 
Ji,  as  she  is  called  in  India. 

All  these  faithful  pioneer  missionaries  will 
28 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

be  crowned  with  crowns  of  glory  that  fadeth  not 
away.  Their  dauntless  courage  and  faith  have 
influenced  scores  of  people  to  offer  themselves 
for  this  blessed  task.  There  was  another  signifi- 
cant happening  at  this  meeting  in  1882.  A. 
McLean  was  elected  Secretary  of  the  Foreign 
Christian  Missionary  Society. 

The  next  year,  Charles  Garst,  the  tall  soldier 
man  and  his  round  rosy  bride,  were  set  apart  at 
the  same  time  and  at  the  same  place.  I  did  not 
dream  of  the  rich  fellowship  I  should  have  with 
dear  Mrs.  Garst  in  after  years,  when  our  then 
unborn  children  should  be  among  earth's 
toilers,  one  in  the  flowery  kingdom  of  Japan,  the 
other  in  the  dark  continent  of  Africa. 

George  T.  and  Josephine  Smith  were  among 
those  who  were  ordained  at  Island  Park.  Mrs. 
Smith  wrote  in  my  autograph  album,  "Here  we 
have  no  continuing  city,  but  we  seek  one  to 
come."  Hers  was  our  first  grave  on  foreign  soil. 

The  missionary  conscience  of  the  church 
was  just  being  touched  and  quickened  in  1882. 
Today  we  have  three  hundred  missionaries  and 
twelve  hundred  native  workers  in  India,  Japan, 
China,  Tibet,  Africa,  Jamaica,  Latin  America, 
Mexico  and  the  Philippines.  They  are  hewing 
out  pillars  for  the  temple  of  our  God. 

Some  friends  from  across  the  seas  attended 
the  first  Island  Park  Convention,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

29 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Timothy  Coop,  of  England.  It  was  whispered  all 
around  that  Mr.  Coop  was  a  millionaire.  We 
were  a  feeble  folk  in  that  day,  and  the  coming 
into  our  midst  of  a  real  live  millionaire  was 
something  to  set  our  blood  tingling.  I  remember 
that  Mr.  Coop  was  immaculately  dressed,  and 
wore  a  tall  silk  hat,  kid  gloves,  and  carried  a 
cane;  while  Mrs.  Coop  wore  beautiful  shimmer- 
ing silk  dresses,  which  shone  through  a  creamy 
lace  mantilla.  I  must  confess  that  at  one  service, 
when  I  sat  behind  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coop,  my  mind 
was  wandering  and  worldly.  I  did  covet  that 
lace  shawl,  and  have  never  seen  one  since  with- 
out thinking  of  the  gracious  English  sister  who 
so  unconsciously  set  all  our  hearts  a-flutter  with 
her  finery. 

I  stopped  in  the  same  hotel  with  the  Coops, 
met  them  and  found  them  delightful  and  enter- 
taining people. 

Times  have  changed.  Now,  at  our  annual 
gathering,  it  is  nothing  unusual  for  us  to  hob- 
nob around  with  millionaires  who  give,  as  did 
the  Coops,  of  their  means  lavishly  for  the  King- 
dom's sake,  and  who  have  not  been  blinded  or 
consumed  with  gold  dust.  I  once  rested  a  few 
days  in  the  home  of  one  of  these  wealthy  mem- 
bers, and  as  I  laid  me  down  to  sleep  on  a  rose- 
wood bed,  with  Sealy  mattress,  India  linen 
sheets,  eider-down  blankets,  yellow  satin  com- 

30 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

forter  and  cluny  lace  spread,  I  thought  of  a 
hymn  my  dear  mother  quoted  when  her  mother 
was  slipping  away  into  the  "Land  of  the  Leal:" 

"Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Soft  as  downy  pillows  are." 

I  never  do  get  away  from  my  childish  im- 
pressions and  I  am  glad  and  thankful  for  vivid 
memories  of  my  father  and  mother  and  their 
consecrated  lives.  The  last  time  I  heard  my 
father  speak  in  the  Sunday  morning  Communion 
service,  he  held  up  his  Bible  and  said,  "I  want  no 
other  criterion  for  my  life  than  this  Word  of 
God."  I  felt  so  proud  that  he  could  use  such  a 
stunning  word  as  criterion,  and  I  wondered  if  the 
other  elders  really  understood  what  he  meant  to 
say. 

My  father  was  a  dry  goods  merchant,  and  I 
had  good  clothes  and  was  considered  a  leader  of 
fashion  in  my  set.  My  ideal  was  Mrs.  Abraham 
Lincoln,  whose  picture  was  often  in  the  papers 
of  those  eventful  days.  My  form  was  not  unlike 
that  of  Mrs.  Lincoln's;  I  dressed  my  hair  like 
hers  and  wore  a  net;  then  I  had  a  black  silk 
dress  made  with  a  long  train,  around  which  was 
a  white  swiss  under-ruffle,  so  I  was  a  good  like- 
ness of  the  first  lady  of  the  land.  In  my  maturer 
years  I  have  often  been  taken  for  Lydia  E.  Pink- 
ham,  so  my  conscious  and  unconscious  efforts 

31 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

have  led  me  to  look  like  two  of  America's  illus- 
trious women. 

Sometimes  when  I  hear  criticisms  of  the 
modern  young  lady's  manner  of  dress,  I  just  can- 
not help  but  remind  the  carpers  of  the  time  when 
we  wore  a  full  pound  of  jute  switches  on  our 
heads,  and  round,  roomy,  hoop  skirts,  with  bus- 
tles on  which  we  could  safely  carry  an  ink  bottle, 
and  sleeves  that  looked  like  inflated  balloons.  I 
wonder  that  the  boards  of  health  did  not  arrest 
us  for  carrying  around  and  scattering  disease 
germs  in  those  street-sweeping  dresses.  But 
come  to  think — that  was  before  the  days  of 
germs  and  Health  Boards. 

I've  little  patience  with  the  people  who  sigh 
for  the  "good  old  days."  These  are  the  greatest 
days  in  the  history  of  the  world — days  of  knowl- 
edge of  art,  of  science,  of  inventions,  of  patri- 
otism, of  benevolence.  Never  did  men  and 
women  gather  in  such  numbers  to  map  the  world 
for  King  Emanuel;  never  did  the  young  people 
pour  out  the  rich,  red  wine  of  youth  as  now,  for 
world  betterment. 

"We  are  living,  we  are  dwelling 
In  a  grand  and  awful  time 
In  an  age  on  ages  telling 
To  be  living  is  sublime." 
32 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"On,  let  all  the  soul  within  you 
For  the  Truth's  sake  go  abroad. 
On,  let  every  nerve  and  sinew 
Tell  on  ages,  tell  for  God." 

For  ten  years  Mr.  Ross  was  a  traveling 
salesman,  having  headquarters  in  a  place  from 
two  to  four  months,  so  I  went  with  him  from 
Minnesota  to  Florida.  I  found  solace  for  my 
bereft  heart  in  visiting  many  primary  schools 
and  kindergartens  and  making  friends  of  the 
children, 

"Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  they  come  from 
God,  Who  is  their  home." 

I've  read  that  away  beyond  the  blue  sea,  in  the 
City  of  London,  there  is  a  playground  and  over 
the  entrance  are  these  words:  "No  adult  may 
enter  here  unless  accompanied  by  a  child."  And 
away  beyond  another  sea  is  the  city  of  God,  and 
over  the  entrance  to  this  city — "Except  ye  be- 
come as  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter  here." 
So  I  want  to  keep  close  to  these  boys  and  girls, 
tender  pilgrims,  and  learn  from  them  the  lessons 
of  trust  and  faith.  My  life's  way  has  been 
brightened  by  the  children  as  I've  traveled  and 
come  to  know  so  many  of  them.  One  of  the 
sweetest  verses  I  read  in  the  Bible  is  Zechariah's 
prophecy  of  the  rebuilding  of  Jerusalem — "The 
streets  of  the  city  shall  be  full  of  boys  and  girls 

33 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

playing  in  the  streets  thereof."  And  we  shall  see 
this  New  Jerusalem  coming  down  from  jGod 
when  Christians  everywhere  shall  clear  the 
streets  of  every  harmful,  hurtful  thing,  so  that 
the  children  shall  play  in  the  streets  in  safety. 
God  bless  the  boys  and  girls — they  are  the  hope 
of  the  world. 

In  1887  we  returned  to  Kendallville,  Indi- 
ana, and  built  us  a  home,  the  first  house  to  be 
painted  red,  and  with  the  first  big  square  window 
in  town.  Some  farmers  passing  one  day,  one 
said,  "What's  the  fool  man  painting  his  house 
red  for?  It  looks  like  a  barn."  But  with  a  white 
rose  in  the  front  yard,  a  lavender  clematis  climb- 
ing over  the  porch,  cherry  and  apple  trees  and 
lilacs  in  the  back  yard,  it  was  a  beautiful  place, 
and  it  was  into  this  home  that  we  carried  our 
son,  Emory  Ross,  when  he  was  ten  weeks  old. 

His  first  birthday  gift  was  a  pair  of  knitted 
socks  sent  from  Liverpool,  England,  by  my 
missionary  friend,  Miss  Lydia  Walker,  who  was 
on  her  way  to  Africa,  after  a  visit  in  the  home- 
land. She  sent  them  with  the  wish  that  his  feet 
would  some  day  turn  toward  Africa. 

When  we  laid  the  cement  walk,  the  father 
put  the  boy's  foot  in  the  soft  cement  and  marked 
the  date,  1892.  The  foot  was  pointed  outward, 
away  from  home,  but  we  little  dreamed  it  would 
tread  the  wilds  of  the  African  Jungle. 

34 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

At  this  time  I  had  a  large  Sunday  School 
class  of  young  men  and  women — seventy-two  of 
them.  We  had  an  organized  class,  with  presi- 
dent, secretary  and  organist.  We  had  our  class 
motto,  class  flower,  class  song  and  class  yell. 
Our  minister,  J.  O.  Rose,  wrote  to  one  of  our 
papers  of  the  size  and  activities  of  this  class,  and 
asked  if  there  were  another  one  in  the  Brother- 
hood like  it,  and  as  no  one  answered,  we  con- 
cluded that  ours  was  the  first  large  organized 
class.  The  young  people  of  that  class  are  scat- 
tered over  the  earth  today.  It  has  been  a  joy  to 
meet  many  of  them  in  the  different  walks  of  life. 

When  Emory  was  six  years  old,  Mrs. 
Caroline  Pearre,  the  mother  of  the  Christian 
Woman's  Board  of  Missions,  visited  in  our  home. 
She  sat  out  on  the  porch  and  told  Emory  stories 
that  he  has  never  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Pearre  gave  two  addresses  in  our 
church— the  one  in  the  evening  was  on  the  "Joy 
of  being  a  minister's  wife."  She  spoke  with  such 
convincing  power  that  every  girl  in  Kendallville 
church  felt  that  no  other  need  apply  but  a  minis- 
ter. It  was  a  blessing  to  have  this  gifted  woman 
in  our  home. 

Another  illustrious  visitor  in  our  home  was 
Miss  Prances  Willard,  the  flaming  evangel,  who 
came  to  speak  for  our  Woman's  Christian  Tem- 
perance Union.  I  never  can  forget  her  wonder- 

35 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

ful  address,  closing  with  these  memorable 
words : 

"Only  the  golden  rule  of  Christ  can  bring  in 
the  golden  age  of  man." 

We  hear  much  in  this  day  of  "World  Democracy," 
and  this  means  exactly  the  same  thing,  for  we 
will  never  have  a  world  democracy  until  the 
spirit  of  the  living  Christ  shall  dwell  in  the 
hearts  of  men  everywhere,  purging  them  from 
greed  of  gain  and  lust  and  power.  Then  and 
only  then  will  every  man  look  upon  every  other 
man  as  his  brother  and  say,  "Our  Father  who 
art  in  heaven." 

In  after  years,  we  had  in  our  home  such 
friends  as  Sunshine  Willit,  Dr.  Gunsaulus,  W.  J. 
Bryan,  Carrie  Nation,  George  Stuart,  George  W. 
Bain,  Billy  Sunday,  and  scores  of  great  mission- 
aries and  preachers,  and  we  always  felt  that  we 
gained  much,  for  they  brought  to  us  visions  of 
life  that  we  would  not  otherwise  have  had. 

"The  ornaments  of  a  home  are  the  friends 
who  frequent  it." 

"The  true  measure  of  a  man  is  by  the  height 
of  his  ideals,  the  depth  of  his  convictions  and 
the  breadth  of  his  sympathies."  By  this  measure, 
these  were  all  great  men  and  women. 

Henry  Drummond  said:  "I  become  a  part 
of  every  man  I  meet,  and  every  man  I  meet  be- 

36 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

comes  a  part  of  me."  Our  lives  have  become  en- 
riched and  blest  as  these  lofty  souls  have  touched 
ours. 

One  of  the  significant  events  in  the  life  of 
the  church  at  Kendallville  was  the  organization 
of  a  Woman's  Missionary  Society,  auxiliary  to 
the  Christian  Woman's  Board  of  Missions.  Only 
seven  women  were  charter  members,  but  that 
was  a  Biblical  number  and  the  Society  has 
proven  a  spiritual  asset  to  the  church.  It  now 
numbers  one  hundred  and  twenty  members,  and 
the  church  supports  its  own  Living  Link  out  in 
Africa.  So  while  the  people  serve  faithfully  in 
Kendallville,  their  representative,  Mrs.  Myrta 
Pearson  Ross,  serves  there,  and  there  if  not  an 
hour  in  the  day  that  that  church  is  not  telling 
the  Gospel  Message. 

The  boys  and  girls  of  my  Sunday  School 
class  of  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Ninety-five  are 
now  the  men  and  women  of  the  church. 

The  church  building  is  dear  to  me,  for  we 
were  in  the  struggle  and  effort  to  build  it.  Every 
stone  in  it  represents  sacrifice  and  toil  of  those 
who  were  then  members  of  that  congregation. 
Emory  laid  the  corner  stone,  striking  it  with  a 
mallet  made  of  wood  of  the  building  by  one  of 
our  closest  friends,  Mr.  John  Miller.  That 
mallet  is  in  Africa  today,  one  of  the  most  prized 
possessions. 

37 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"Other  foundations  can  no  man  lay  than 
that  which  is  laid,  Jesus  Christ,  the  Chief  Corner 
Stone,"  were  the  words  spoken  by  the  five-year- 
old  lad  that  day.  He  probably  did  not  know  just 
what  they  meant,  but  he  has  learned  since,  that 
"Except  the  Lord  build  the  house,  they  labor  in 
vain  who  build  it." 

Most  of  the  friends  of  that  early  day  have 
gone,  their  spirits  loosed  from  the  moors  of  time. 
I  visit  the  City  of  the  Dead  at  Kendallville,  a 
beautiful  spot,  and  think  that 

"As  life  goes  on,  the  world  grows  strange 
With  faces  new;  and  near  the  end, 

The  milestones  into  headstones  change — 
'Neath  every  one  a  friend." 


38 


SOUTHERN   CHRISTIAN   INSTITUTE 


CHAPTER  III. 

In  1897,  Mr.  Ross  and  I  were  called  to  the 
work  of  the  Southern  Christian  Institute,  at 
Edwards,  Mississippi,  and  called  so  providen- 
tially that  we  dared  not  resist  it,  lest  we  be  found 
fighting  against  God.  A  former  pastor,  Brother 
J.  Randall  Farout,  and  his  good  wife  had  gone 
South  and  established  the  school,  and  through 
them  we  had  kept  in  touch  with  the  work. 
Brother  Farout  was  a  tall,  angular  man  with 
long  gray  beard.  I  always  stood  in  awe  of  him, 
he  had  such  a  patriarchal  appearance — a  man  of 
God,  I  called  him.  Mrs.  Farout  was  a  dainty 
little  woman,  with  a  wonderful  mind  and  a  faith 
that  never  failed.  They  endured  many  hard 
things,  but  they  endured  as  seeing  Him  who  is 
invisible. 

Brother  Farout  lived  only  a  few  months;  his 
body  lies  in  the  Edwards  Cemetery.  A  tall  white 
stone  marks  the  grave,  a  juniper  tree  stands  like 
a  God-stationed  sentinel  above  it. 

Sister  Farout  lived  past  her  four  score  years, 
"wearing  her  crown  of  wild  olives,  type  of  grey 
honor  and  sweet  rest." 

Mrs.  Farout  named  the  place  Mt.  Beulah,  and 
it  is  so  known  locally  now.  It  is  said  to  be  the 
most  beautiful  plantation  in  Mississippi.  The 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

old  antibellum  mansion  stands  in  its  clear  white 
on  a  hill  surrounded  by  great  trees — magnolia, 
holly,  poplar,  maple,  and  is  a  beacon  of  hope  for 
the  black  race.  The  school  is  a  monument  to  the 
faith  and  fidelity  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  Randall 
Farout. 

For  thirty  years  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  B.  Lehman 
have  been  in  charge  of  the  school,  and  their  lives 
have  been  a  blessing  in  all  our  Southland,  to  the 
islands  of  the  sea,  and  to  the  uttermost  parts  of 
the  earth. 

For  six  years  we  assisted  them  in  the  work, 
and  we  count  those  years  the  choicest  seal  of 
our  calling.  The  school  has  always  stood  for  the 
three-fold  training  of  head,  heart  and  hand,  and 
hundreds  of  boys  and  girls  have  gone  out  from 
that  school  into  honorable  vocations  of  life,  step- 
ping to  the  marching  music  of  high  resolve  and 
earnest  purpose.  There  has  never  been  a  grad- 
uate of  that  school  convicted  of  crime.  They 
have  gone  out  and  built  better  homes,  schools 
and  churches — many  of  their  own  children  are 
now  in  the  school,  having  even  greater  advan- 
tages and  facilities  than  the  parents  had. 

Directly  after  we  went  into  the  school,  there 
came  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  black  man  from 
Missouri,  a  man  who  caught  a  vision  there  of  the 
world's  need  and  who  went  out  to  Africa  and 
"Forgot  himself  into  immortality,"  Jacob 

40 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Kenoly.  Jacob  was  a  great  man,  great  in  his 
grasp  of  God's  truth  and  in  his  faith  and  fellow- 
ship with  God. 

There  sprang  up  between  the  black  man  and 
the  ten  year  old  white  boy,  Emory  Ross,  a  love 
and  a  devotion  that  was  like  unto  that  of  David 
and  Jonathan.  Their  souls  were  knit  together. 
They  weather-boarded  and  shingled  and  set  type 
and  rode  the  horses  after  the  cows  and  set  opos- 
sum traps,  and  often  in  the  evening  I've  seen  the 
two  down  on  the  ponds  of  the  plantation,  sailing 
little  ships  the  white  boy  had  made.  And  they 
were  always  sailing,  sailing  off  to  some  far 
country,  and  it  looked  just  like  boy's  play,  but  in 
the  light  of  what  has  since  come  to  pass,  it  seems 
more  like  a  prophecy,  for  the  day  came  when  the 
black  man  sailed  the  great  waters  and  the  day 
came  when  the  white  boy  followed  him. 

One  of  the  things  I  remember  with  so  much 
pleasure,  of  our  stay  in  that  school  of  negroes, 
is  their  singing. 

"Dear  to  the  black  man's  heart 
Is  his  wonderful  gift  of  song; 

The  gold  which  kindly  Nature  sifts 
Among  his  sands  of  wrong." 

Who  can  measure  the  influence  of  song? 

41 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"We  sing,  we  know  not  how  or  why, 

Only  this  we  know, 
When  the  heart's  barriers  overflow, 

We  must  sing  or  die." 

In  the  summer  of  1897  and  1898,  we  passed 
through  the  terrible  epidemic  of  yellow  fever. 
All  the  people  of  the  village  were  sick  at  one 
time ;  one-tenth  of  them  died  in  a  few  days.  The 
air  seemed  laden  with  death.  One  of  our  splendid 
boys  was  digging  a  well  out  near  my  window, 
and  he  sang, 

"A  little  talk  with  Jesus 

Makes  it  right,  all  right, 
Through  trials  of  every  kind 

Thank  God,  I  always  find 
To  have  a  little  talk  with  Jesus 

Makes  it  right,  all  right, 

The  melody  of  that  song  has  remained  with  me, 
and  its  simple  philosophy  has  helped  me  over 
many  a  hard  place. 

We  read  much  in  the  Bible  of  song.  When 
the  forty-two  thousand  returned  to  rebuild  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem,  they  brought  with  them  not 
only  carpenters  and  artisans,  food  and  money 
and  implements,  but  there  were  among  them 
two  hundred  singing  men  and  women. 

The  Psalmist  said:      "Thou  wilt  compass 
42 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

me  about  with  songs  of  deliverance.  Thy  stat- 
utes have  been  my  songs  in  the  house  of  my 
habitation." 

Martin  Luther  said:  "Song  is  the  shortest 
path  to  God." 

Who  does  not  remember  the  power  of  Mrs. 
Scovill's  singing  in  our  great  conventions?  Men 
and  women  are  lifted  to  the  heights  of  new  in- 
spirations and  new  endeavor  by  song,  as  tired 
soldiers  spring  into  a  swinging  gait  or  make  a 
dashing  charge,  stirred  by  drum,  trumpet  and 
flying  banners. 

"God  gave  the  gift  as  my  portion 

To  ease  life's  burdens  in  part; 
That  whatever  I  do  or  suffer, 

I  have  a  singing  heart. 
So  I  shall  not  fear  in  the  darkness, 

Nor  falter  at  pain  or  smart, 
For  I  know  he  can  reach  God  always, 

Who  has  a  singing  heart." 

The  good  natured  humor  of  the  negro  is  one 
of  his  alluring  traits.  I  recall  some  amusing 
things  in  our  school  work.  A  class  was  asked: 

"If  you  had  just  four  potatoes,  how  would 
you  divide  them  among  six  people?" 

"Mash  'em,"  was  the  boy's  reply. 

I  asked  my  cook,  "Johnny,  are  you  sick?" 
43 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"No  Ma'am,  Miss  Ross,  I'se  not  sick.  I  jes 
feel  slightly  decomposed." 

A  boy  read  from  his  new  Testament,  "If  a 
man  ask  thee  to  go  a  mile,  take  the  twins." 

One  of  the  girls  who  had  gone  home,  wrote 
to  me  during  the  time  of  the  yellow  fever;  she 
tried  to  express  to  me  the  sentiment  of  the 
Mizpah  benediction.  This  is  what  she  wrote: 

"Mrs.  Ross,  may  God  stand  between  me  and 
you  with  regards  to  misery." 

I  have  been  interested  in  gathering  peculiar 
names  of  people.  One  girl  in  school  was  named 
Careesa  Burgoyne  Arleen  Morrison.  One  of  the 
girls  told  me  of  her  twin  sisters  at  home,  Cora 
Luster  Dixie  Cluster  Eddie  Rhea  Travillion  and 
Caroline  Beatrice  Earl  Octavarious  Travillion. 

I  once  heard  from  my  hotel  window  down 
in  Alabama,  "John  de  Baptist,  what's  yo  doin'  in 
dat  wattah?"  I  had  always  connected  the 
thought  of  the  forerunner  with  water,  but  this 
was  a  startling  question  outside  the  theological 
realm. 

Among  my  white  friends,  I  have  found  a 
minister  named  "Sackville  Patterson  Promenade 
Swayse-Smith,"  a  Miss  "Cuba  Doloris  Nunez,"  a 
"Boston  Hague  Bartholomew  Greyston,  M.  D.,"  a 
"Battle  Manasses  Bull  Run  Brown,"  and  three 
sisters  in  a  banker's  home  whose  nick  names 
were,  "Tip,"  "Lace"  and  "Bus." 

44 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

The  annual  visit  to  the  Southern  Christian 
Institute  of  Brother  C.  C.  Smith  was  eagerly 
looked  forward  to  with  joy  by  teachers  and  stu- 
dents, and  no  one  ever  reveled  with  more 
delight  in  the  fun,  frolic  and  music  of  the  place 
than  did  Brother  Smith.  He  always  brought  his 
field  glasses  and  would  stroll  for  hours  through 
the  woods.  "The  friendly  trees  gave  up  their 
secrets"  to  Brother  Smith.  He  loved  the  out  of 
doors,  and  delighted  in  walking  the  verdant 
aisles  of  the  forest.  "The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and 
the  fullness  thereof,"  and  he,  being  a  child  of 
God,  looked  on  this  "Great,  wide,  wonderful, 
beautiful  world"  as  his  inheritance.  The  white 
boy  of  the  plantation  adored  Brother  Smith  and 
was  his  constant  companion.  His  chapel  talks 
would  always  bring  hope  and  inspiration  to  the 
young  people,  and  his  sermons  on  a  Lord's  day 
morning  were  never  to  be  forgotten.  How  he 
did  leave  the  impress  of  his  life  on  the  black  boys 
and  girls!  "A  Great  Man"  was  written  by  a 
negro,  one  of  the  finest  and  most  beautiful 
tributes  that  I  have  ever  read.  It  was  the 
irresistable  outpouring  of  a  soul  that  loved 
Brother  Smith  and  to  whom  the  world  was  lonely 
after  his  friend  had  gone  from  earth. 

On  our  trips  back  and  forth  from  the  South, 
we  would  stop  off  at  Chattanooga  to  visit  Look- 
out Mountain.  It  was  before  the  trolley  was 

45 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

built  and  we  would  drive  up  in  a  carriage.  We 
were  told  that  we  could  see  into  seven  different 
states  from  the  top  of  that  mountain,  a  magnifi- 
cent scene  that  just  holds  you  fast. 

"Mountains  are  God's  thoughts  raised  up; 
the  sea  His  thoughts  spread  out." 

How  often  our  Lord  resorted  to  the  moun- 
tains to  pray!  The  higher  altitudes  have  clearer 
vision. 

"The  mountains  and  the  hills  shall  break 
forth  before  you  into  singing,  and  all  the  trees 
of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands." 

In  August  of  1898,  Emory  went  low  with  the 
dengue  fever.  Doctors  said  there  was  no  hope 
of  saving  his  life,  but  God  cured  him  and  he  was 
"Saved  to  serve." 

Lois  Lehman  was  the  one  little  white  baby 
on  the  plantation.  When  she  was  three  years 
old,  Emory  took  his  first  lesson  in  carpentry, 
under  his  father's  instructions,  and  built  Lois  a 
playhouse  with  real  windows  and  doors,  with 
hinges  and  locks.  He  named  it  "Windsor  Cas- 
tle." It  was  a  homey  sweet  place  out  under  the 
great  trees.  He  constructed  a  telephone  out  of 
wire  and  tin  can^  from  the  play-house  to  the 
printing  office,  so  he  could  talk  to  Jacob.  An 
electrical  storm  came  one  day  and  the  lightning 

46 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

ran  down  the  wire  and  laid  Jacob  out,  covered 
with  type,  plaster  and  other  debris. 

On  Emory's  twelfth  birthday,  a  negro  maii 
gave  him  a  goat.  He  built  a  cart,  hitched  the 
goat  to  it,  and  proceeded  to  take  the  little  white 
lady  riding  all  over  the  plantation.  I  received  a 
picture  the  other  day  of  Lois  in  cap  and  gown, 
for  she  had  just  graduated  from  Hiram  College. 
She  will  be  in  the  College  of  Missions  next  year, 
her  face  toward  Japan,  but  she  will  never  sail  in 
the  great  ocean  steamer  with  any  more  pride 
than  she  rode  in  that  cart  over  Mt.  Beulah, 
drawn  by  the  white  goat,  driven  by  Emory. 

"The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

"One  ship  drives  east  and  another  drives  west 

With  the  self  same  wind  that  blows. 
'Tis  the  set  of  the  sail  and  not  the  gale 

That  tells  us  which  way  it  goes. 
Like  the  winds  of  the  sea  are  the  ways  of  fate, 

As  we  journey  along  through  life; 
'Tis  the  set  of  the  soul  determines  the  goal 

And  neither  the  calm  nor  the  strife." 


47 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Planting  colleges  and  filling  them  with  stu- 
dious young  men  and  women  is  planting  the  seed 
corn  of  the  world,"  said  Judson.  The  pioneer 
families  who  came  to  Illinois  from  Kentucky  in 
an  early  day  and  established  this  school  of  learn- 
ing, Eureka  College,  had  a  veritable  Joseph's 
dream,  and  their  sheaves  stand  today  straight 
and  tall  all  over  the  earth. 

For  eleven  years  we  lived  in  Eureka  and  had 
charge  of  the  dormitory  for  young  women, 
"Lida's  Wood,"  a  lovely  home  given  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  W.  J.  Ford  in  memory  of  their  daughter 
Lida,  who  went  away  to  her  heavenly  home  just 
after  she  had  reached  her  thirteenth  birthday 
here. 

Once  Brother  and  Sister  Ford  spent  a  month 
with  us  at  Lida's  Wood.  They  did  so  enjoy  the 
young  people.  They  realized  that  Lida  "had 
gone  where  she  no  longer  needed  their  poor  pro- 
tection, where  Christ  Himself  doth  rule,"  so  they 
were  blessed  in  making  this  beautiful  home  for 
other  girls.  Their  gift  was  not  in  vain,  for  out 
from  this  building  and  college  have  gone  em- 
bassadors  of  Christ  into  every  quarter  of  the 
habitable  globe. 

A  cherished  friend,  Miss  Fannie  Boggs,  was 

48 


LIDA'S    WOOD 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

a  sewing  teacher  in  the  Southern  Christian  In- 
stitute. She  spent  her  summers  with  us  at  Lida's 
Wood.  She  put  us  all  in  "good  repair"  with  her 
deft  fingers  and  swift  needle.  We  all  loved  her 
and  called  her  "Cummi,"  after  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson's  nurse. 

These  were  eventful  years  in  our  lives.  It 
is  a  joy  to  recall  the  happy  days  with  the  young 
people  in  that  home.  I  am  thinking  of  them  now 
as  I  write. 

"All  to  myself 
I  am  thinking  of  you, 
Thinking  of  the  things  you  used  to  do, 
Thinking  of  the  things  you  used  to  say, 
Thinking  of  each  golden  yesterday. 
Sometimes  I  sigh  and  sometimes  I  smile, 
But  I  keep  each  olden,  golden  while 
All  to  myself." 

Yes,  I  am  thinking  of  the  things  they  used  to 
do.  The  annual  "Night  Shirt  Parade"  was  an 
event  to  be  dreaded,  but  endured.  Young  men 
did  not  think  their  education  complete  if  they 
did  not  once  a  year  array  themselves  in  white 
raiment  and  make  a  ghostly  raid  on  the  young 
women's  domicile.  The  leaders  of  this  gang 
found  vent  to  their  exuberance  in  many  ways — 
by  putting  a  Professor's  cow  up  on  the  chapel 
rostrum;  by  swiping  the  bride's  cake  from  off 

49 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

the  dining  table  of  her  own  home  while  the 
waiter's  back  was  turned;  by  securing  my  cook's 
clothes  and  dressing  up  one  of  their  number  and 
daring  him  to  walk  right  by  my  door  into  the 
buttery  and  carry  off  three  large  chocolate  cakes, 
and  they  all  becoming  partners  to  the  crime  by 
devouring  the  same. 

O  yes,  sometimes  I  sigh  and  sometimes  I 
smile.  I  find  now  that  the  most  audacious  of 
these  marauders  are  filling  places  of  trust,  many 
of  them  in  prominent  city  pulpits  of  our  land, 
some  gone  as  missionaries.  I  was  thrown  com- 
pletely off  my  subject  as  I  was  trying  to  speak 
in  a  church  once,  when  one  of  these  desperadoes, 
who  bears  the  mark  of  my  clothes-line  on  his 
neck  to  this  day  (he  was  running  across  the  yard 
with  half-filled  ice  cream  freezer,  when  he  hung 
on  the  line  with  his  throat  cut,)  walked  solemnly 
down  the  aisle  with  the  deacons — still  serving 
tables.  I  refrain  from  giving  names — "Silence 
is  golden." 

We  had  many  festive  days  at  the  "Wood." 
On  our  wedding  anniversary,  May  21st,  we 
always  served  supper  on  the  lawn  and  sometimes 
donned  our  wedding  garments  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  girls. 

On  Easter  morning,  we  always  had  a  special 
yellow  breakfast.  A  tall  papier  mache  rabbit 
stood  in  a  bed  of  moss  on  the  center  of  the  table, 

50 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

surrounded  by  yellow  eggs.  We  recited  the 
Resurrection  Story  that  morning,  then  went  out 
to  the  front  porch  for  the  egg  hunt,  just  as  they 
did  at  the  White  House.  The  dignified  Pro- 
fessors, who  stayed  with  us,  would  join  in  the 
frolic  and  hunt  until  the  last  egg  was  found.  The 
one  who  found  the  most  was  rewarded  by  an 
extra  orange. 

On  Thanksgiving  Day  we  had  special  morn- 
ing service,  then  went  to  the  church  for  one  of 
those  inimitable  church  dinners,  where  college 
girls,  who  are  always  starved,  would  get  filled  up 
for  once. 

A  sweet,  precious  hour  was  the  hour  of 
prayer  on  Sunday  morning,  just  after  breakfast, 
in  the  back  parlor.  No  one  was  compelled  to 
come  in — just  those  who  wanted  to.  Most  of 
them  came — but  I  used  to  think  they  did  not 
enter  into  it  very  heartily.  Years  afterward,  one 
of  the  most  mischievous  of  the  group  wrote  back 
to  me:  "Dear  Mother  Ross,  the  most  precious 
memory  I  have  of  Lida's  Wood  is  that  Sunday 
morning  hour  in  the  back  parlor."  One  of  the 
wildest  harumscarums  of  all  wrote  me  recently 
for  missionary  literature,  saying:  "I  think  you 
will  be  surprised  to  know  that  I  am  President  of 
the  Woman's  Missionary  Society  way  out  here 
in  New  Mexico." 

One  night  at  twelve  I  heard  a  screech,  and 
51 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

went  upstairs  to  find  sixteen  girls  in  a  room, 
having  just  finished  a  nine  course  banquet.  I 
made  them  scamper,  reproving  them: 

"Girls,  one  of  the  secretaries  is  in  the  room 
below — came  in  so  tired  and  worn,  I'm  afraid 
you  have  kept  him  awake."  Of  course  every  girl 
felt  like  a  culprit  and  was  filled  with  remorse. 
Next  morning,  when  H.  H.  Peters  returned 
thanks  at  the  table  and  said,  "O,  Lord,  we  thank 
Thee  for  the  rest  and  quiet  of  the  past  night," 
those  girls  screeched  again. 

A  dear  girl,  who  was  preparing  to  be  a  sing- 
ing evangelist,  went  to  her  home  for  a  few  days' 
vacation,  sang  at  an  evening  meeting,  "Beautiful 
Isle  of  Somewhere,"  and  early  next  morning 
was  burned  to  death.  Her  family  and  church 
furnished  a  room  in  Lida's  Wood,  bearing  the 
name  of  Sarah  Fletcher.  The  memory  of  her  is 
sweet  and  precious. 

What  story  of  those  Lida's  Wood  days  would 
be  complete  without  telling  of  Clark  Marsh?  He 
was  a  poor,  rich  boy,  who  worked  his  way 
through  college  and  who  was  the  big  brother  to 
all  the  girls — unselfish — just  literally  lived  for 
others — full  of  fun  and  frolic,  always  wanted  to 
go  as  a  missionary,  always  was  a  missionary 
wherever  he  was — always  serving.  A  dear  wife 
with  three  little  children  out  in  California  long 
for  "The  touch  of  a  vanished  hand,  a  voice  for- 

52 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

ever  still,"  for  Clark  Marsh  gave  his  life  lor 
world  betterment, 

"With  just  a  cross  to  mark  his  bed, 
And  poppies  growing  overhead." 

I  think  of  Jessie  Snively,  the  brilliant  stu- 
dent, who  made  A's  the  whole  four  years;  never 
dreaded  an  examination;  married  and  had  two 
dear  children;  went  away  to  hear  the  Master 
say,  "Well  done." 

And  Lovell  Hull,  a  strong,  fearless,  resource- 
ful girl!  How  unlikely  it  seemed  that  she  should 
go  so  soon,  her  life  so  full  of  promise!  A 
motherless  child  will  be  taught  to  love  her  mem- 
ory. Lovell  furnished  a  room  in  the  dormitory 
and  it  may  be  that  some  day  her  own  daughter 
will  occupy  it. 

A  splendid  young  Canadian,  Elmore  Sinclair, 
was  graduated  in  the  class  of  1908,  and  he  and 
Emory  joined  the  Student  Volunteers  on  their 
graduation  day.  Elmore  was  hindered  from  going 
into  the  "uttermost  parts,"  but  served  with 
marked  success  as  pastor,  first  in  Watseka, 
Illinois,  and  then  in  Jackson  Boulevard  Christian 
Church  in  Kansas  City.  In  the  midst  of  a  stren- 
uous work,  with  a  devoted  little  family  to  cheer 
and  encourage  him,  he  was  called  to  join  that 
great  company  who  serve  Him  day  and  night. 

Some  one  likens  our  ocean  steamers  to 
53 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"shuttles  in  God's  great  weaving  loom,  moving 
ever  across  the  world,  bearing  the  threads  of  His 
tapestry."  Many  of  these  patterns  are  being 
woven  by  threads  that  reach  out  from  Eureka 
College  into  India,  Japan,  China,  Africa,  the 
Philippines,  Porto  Rico,  into  all  the  dark  corners 
of  the  earth.  And  the  cloth  of  gold  is  being 
wrought — redeemed  men  and  women  are  clothed 
in  the  robes  of  righteousness  and  are  clad  in 
garments  of  praise,  because  scores  of  Eureka's 
young  people  have  heard  the  bugle  call  of  the 
Lord,  saying,  "Who  will  go  for  us,  and  whom 
shall  we  send?"  and  have  answered,  "Here  am  I, 
Lord,  send  me." 

"The  Master  Builder  of  the  Congo,"  Ray 
Eldred,  was  once  a  student  of  Eureka  College. 
The  story  of  his  heroic  life  has  stirred  the  hearts 
of  hundreds  of  people.  His  lonely  grave,  out  by 
the  Lokolo  River  in  Africa,  is  one  of  the  guide 
posts  to  a  Christian  civilization  when  a  sufficient 
number  of  men  and  women  of  Ray  Eldred's  cali- 
ber are  found  willing  to  go  bearing  the  lighted 
torch. 

Just  recently  I  was  in  a  Michigan  town  and 
my  hostess  and  I  were  talking  of  "tithing."  She 
said,  "We  have  a  woman  in  our  church  who  is 
not  satisfied  with  giving  a  tenth,  but  she  gives 
nine-tenths  of  all  she  earns."  She  is  a  masseur. 
Whether  my  tired  muscles  needed  her  more  or 

54 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

whether  my  heart  just  longed  to  see  this  woman 
— any  way,  I  sent  for  her  and  had  a  treatment 
of  body  and  soul.  She  told  me  of  her  life,  one  of 
trial  and  hardship.  She  was  baptised  in  the 
same  stream  and  at  the  same  time  with  Ray 
Eldred.  Was  there  magic  in  the  waters?  There 
must  have  been  a  baptism  as  of  fire,  that  led 
these  two  to  walk  the  Red  Road.  I  said,  "You 
surely  ought  to  lay  by  enough  to  have  a  home  in 
your  old  age,"  showing  my  wordly  prudence.  She 
answered,  "Our  Lord  had  no  home,  the  disciple 
is  not  above  His  Lord."  But  she  told  me  that  she 
was  paying  into  the  Benevolent  Association 
enough  to  provide  for  her  if  she  becomes 
helpless.  She  gives  hundreds  of  dollars  every 
year  and  lives  on  the  simplest  fare.  As  I  looked 
into  the  strong,  clear  face  of  this  plain  woman, 
I  thought  she  must  have  prayed  Henry  Martin's 
prayer,  "O,  God,  make  me  an  uncommon  Chris- 
tian." 

One  of  the  most  radiant  gifts  made  by 
Eureka  College  was  Ella  Ewing,  a  beautiful  girl 
with  a  face  that  just  beamed  and  shone  with  joy 
and  love  and  hope.  With  the  most  buoyant  faith 
she  went  out  to  Congo  land,  and  was  only  per- 
mitted to  serve  there  a  short  time.  After  three 
days'  illness,  Mrs.  Eva  N.  Dye  had  to  tell  the 
dear  girl  that  she  must  die.  Ella's  face  lighted 
and  she  said,  "Tell  Mother  I  am  so  glad  she  let 

55 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

me  come.  These  have  been  the  three  happiest 
months  of  my  life."  Then  calling  her  classmates 
by  name,  said,  "Tell  them  to  come  out  and  take 
up  my  work." 

"Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  hath  sent  us 
Through  the  midnight  lands; 

Ours  the  mighty  ordination 
Of  His  pierced  hands." 

When  soldiers  of  our  Country  die  in  a 
foreign  field,  their  bodies  are  brought  back  at 
public  expense,  if  friends  so  desire.  A  funeral 
ship  enters  the  harbor  to  the  booming  of  minute 
guns  from  forts  and  ships.  Public  buildings  are 
closed  and  ensigns  dropped  at  half  mast.  The 
president,  admirals,  generals,  statesmen  and 
diplomats  bare  their  heads  as  the  honored  dust 
is  borne  through  our  Nation's  capital  to  historic 
Arlington.  But  the  dead  soldiers  of  the  Cross 
lie  where  they  fall  on  our  lonely  missionary  out- 
posts. 

"When  God  plows  long,  deep  furrows  on  the 
soul,  then  He  purposeth  a  crop." 

There  was  a  smoldering  sentiment  of  mis- 
sionary zeal  in  the  hearts  of  the  young  people  of 
Eureka  College  that  leaped  into  a  red  flame  un- 
der the  burning  messages  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Royal 
J.  Dye,  who  returned  to  tell  us  what  God  had 
wrought.  This  great  man  and  woman,  with  their 

56 


A  Rood  of  Remembrance 

little  daughters,  made  their  home  in  Eureka  for 
four  years.  What  a  blessing  they  were  to  the 
whole  community!  They  talked  in  chapel  and 
church  in  words  that  burned;  they  pictured 
Africa's  degradation  and  woe,  then  told  how  God 
had  verified  His  promise:  "I'll  open  rivers  in 
high  places  and  fountains  in  the  midst  of  the 
valleys.  I  will  make  the  wilderness  a  pool  of 
water  and  the  dry  land  springs  of  water." 

Then  came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fred  Hagin  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Clifford  Weaver,  telling  the  same  cry- 
ing need  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the  flowery  kingdom 
of  Japan. 

W.  E.  Doughty  says,  "The  reason  the  sob  of 
weariness  and  pain  in  the  heart  of  Christ  has  riot 
died  away  into  the  silence  of  victory  and  peace, 
is  because  His  followers  have  not  made  Him  the 
passion  of  their  lives."  But  here  were  six  men 
and  women  who  had  seen  the  countries  without 
Christ  and  what  it  meant  to  humanity,  and  the 
passion  of  their  lives  was  to  make  Him  known. 

A  woman  said  to  me  about  this  time,  "I'd  be 
afraid  to  send  my  daughter  to  Eureka  for  fear 
you'd  make  a  missionary  of  her."  When  the 
"Men  and  Millions"  team  told  in  the  Southern 
part  of  the  State  that  ten  young  men  of  the 
College  had  offered  themselves  for  the  fields,  a 
mother  came  to  them  at  the  close  of  the  meeting 
and  said,  "I  hope  my  son  was  not  one  of  them." 

57 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

The  Boards  tell  us  that  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  when  a  young  person  offers  himself  for  this 
God-given  task,  the  parents  object.  I  can't 
understand  it.  The  one  specific  prayer  our 
Saviour  ever  taught  us  was,  "Pray  ye  the  Lord 
of  the  harvest  that  He  would  thrust  forth 
laborers  into  the  harvest."  Christ  would  have 
us  so  deepen  the  prayer-life  of  the  church  that 
young  men  and  women  would  be  thrust  forth  of 
the  spirit  of  God  as  was  Jeremiah,  who  felt  this 
passion  as  a  consuming  fire  in  his  bones. 


58 


CHAPTER   V. 

After  Emory's  graduation  day  in  June,  1908, 
he  went  to  the  Southern  Christian  Institute  as 
financial  secretary. 

In  1911,  the  news  came  of  the  drowning  of 
Jacob  Kenoly  out  in  Liberia.  Soon  a  letter  came 
from  the  Christian  Woman's  Board  of  Mis- 
sions asking  Emory  if  he  would  go  out 
and  see  what  could  be  done  with  the  work 
that  Jacob's  nerveless  hands  had  laid  down. 
Emory  gladly  responded  to  the  call.  Harry  and 
Lula  Smith,  who  had  been  among  our  most  faith- 
ful students  at  the  Southern  Christian  Institute, 
volunteered  to  go  out  with  him,  taking  their 
little  three  year  old  daughter,  Willie  Sue.  Harry 
and  Lula  were  friends  of  Jacob,  and  they  found 
joy  in  going  to  his  mission.  Jacob  Kenoly  had 
started  for  the  heart  of  Africa,  but  he  fell  in 
with  some  Liberians  at  the  St.  Louis  World's  Fair 
and  he  decided  to  go  with  them.  But  while  his 
work  was  blest  in  Liberia  and  only  eternity  can 
reveal  the  good  he  did,  yet  he  was  disappointed; 
he  wanted  to  go  to  the  very  neediest  field  where 
no  messenger  had  ever  gone.  But  he  was 
hindered.  I  always  think  of  his  gravestone  out 
there  on  the  West  Coast  as  a  guide  post  to  the 
regions  beyond.  The  coast  climate  proved 

59 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

deadly  for  the  black  as  well  as  white  people 
from  America.  Lula  Smith  went  near  death's 
door  with  the  black  water  fever.  She  came  back 
to  America  and  is  serving  with  great  fidelity  in 
our  Jarvis  Christian  Institute  at  Hawkins, 
Texas,  while  Harry  is  State  Evangelist  of  that 
great  Commonwealth — Texas.  They  are  real 
missionaries  wherever  they  are,  and  would  gladly 
go  again  to  Africa  if  the  way  should  open. 

These  three  messengers  sailed  from  New 
York  in  October,  1912.  Four  young  men,  former 
classmates  of  Emory,  went  from  Harvard  and 
Yale  to  see  them  off.  Many  college  students 
wrote  steamer  letters.  Mine  was  to  be  read  first. 

"With  God  over  the  sea,  without  God  not 
over  the  threshold,"  was  my  message  to  him. 

Just  a  few  weeks  after  Emory  sailed,  Miss 
Eva  Holmes,  a  former  student  of  Eureka  College, 
came  down  from  Chicago  and  brought  with  her 
a  little  negro  girl,  Freda  Brown,  from  Monrovia, 
Liberia,  West  Africa.  She  was  in  our  home 
three  days,  and  told  us  a  most  interesting  story 
of  her  life.  She  was  the  child  of  a  rich  African 
chief.  When  Freda  was  born  her  mother  died; 
the  father  carried  Freda  to  the  coast,  and  gave 
her  to  the  care  of  a  Methodist  missionary,  Miss 
Osborne,  who  kept  her  for  eight  years.  Then 
Miss  Osborne  sickened  and  died  and  the  father 
took  Freda  to  Monrovia  and  put  her  in  the  col- 

60 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

lege  of  West  Africa.  When  she  had  finished  the 
elementary  course  there  the  principal  of  the 
school  brought  her  to  Chicago  and  put  her  under 
the  care  of  Mrs.  Myer,  in  the  Methodist  Mission- 
ary Training  School.  While  Freda  was  with  us, 
she  wrote  to  President  Daniel  Howard  and  his 
family  with  whom  she  was  intimately  associated 
while  in  Monrovia.  She  wrote  them  of  Emory's 
going  to  Liberia  and  the  President  wrote  us  a 
letter  thanking  us  for  our  kindness  to  the  little 
girl  in  a  strange  land  and  sent  us  a  picture  of  his 
Inaugural.  Mr.  Howard  was  the  first  native  to 
be  elected  to  the  presidency  of  the  republic;  he 
is  a  godly,  upright  man,  a  class  leader  in  the 
Methodist  Church  and  his  influence  for  right- 
eousness has  been  indelibly  impressed  on  his 
people.  He  welcomed  the  missionaries  who  had 
come,  received  them  into  the  executive  mansion, 
and  was  helpful  to  them  in  every  way  possible. 

Miss  Eva  Holmes  is  now  a  missionary  to 
Central  Africa  under  the  board  of  the  Methodist 
Church.  Her  love  for  Freda  Brown  and  her  sym- 
pathy for  the  little  black  girl  undoubtedly  helped 
to  lead  her  to  offer  her  superb  young  life  for  the 
redemption  of  the  Dark  Continent. 

Another  most  helpful  friend  in  Liberia  was 
Col.  Charles  Young,  who  had  been  sent  out  as 
military  attache  from  the  United  States  to  train 
a  native  army  to  protect  the  border  lines  of 

61 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Liberia.  He  received  the  missionaries  most  cor- 
dially and  set  aside  a  room  in  the  Legation 
Building  at  Monrovia  which  he  called  the  "Mis- 
sion Room." 

Once  Emory  heard  that  the  Colonel  was  very 
ill  with  black  water  fever;  he  hastened  to  the 
capitol  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  assistance.  He 
nursed  the  Colonel  back  to  convalescence  and 
then  the  government  asked  him  to  take  the 
Colonel  to  Paris  and  put  him  on  ship  board  for 
America.  This  he  did.  Mr.  Ross  and  I  went  to 
Wilberforce,  Ohio,  to  see  the  Colonel  and  hear 
the  latest  word  from  our  son.  We  found  a  most 
luxurious  home.  Colonel  Young  is  a  graduate  of 
West  Point,  the  only  negro  Colonel  in  the  world. 
He  has  been  in  the  employ  of  our  government  for 
thirty-nine  years;  has  traveled  extensively  and 
read  widely;  he  is  a  linguist  and  speaks  seven 
languages,  is  a  musical  composer,  has  a  Steinway 
grand  piano  in  his  home  and  does  not  allow  his 
children  to  hear  ragtime.  His  wife  is  also  an 
accomplished  woman,  a  graduate  of  Spelman 
Seminary  at  Atlanta,  Georgia.  Colonel  Young 
spoke  words  of  deepest  appreciation  for  what 
Emory  had  donj  for  him  and  said  repeatedly, 
"He  saved  my  life."  The  few  days  spent  in  that 
beautiful  home  was  one  of  the  most  profitable 
visits  we  have  ever  made. 

The  crowning  joy  of  our  lives  was  when 
62 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Emory  sought  and  won  one  of  the  truest  and 
dearest  girls  to  walk  life's  pathway  with  him. 
We  found  in  Myrta  Maud  Pearson  all  that  our 
hearts  could  desire.  The  announcement  of  their 
engagement  was  made  June  13,  1913. 

Commencement  Day  of  1913  came  and  went. 
Then  Mr.  Ross  and  I  went  away  for  the  summer. 
We  visited  old  friends  in  Kendallville,  Indiana, 
then  on  to  Cleveland  and  spent  a  month  at  my 
sister's  cottage  on  the  Lake  Shore.  Came  to 
Winchester,  Indiana,  Mr.  Ross's  boyhood  home, 
and  spent  a  few  weeks  in  the  home  of  his  sister. 
Mr.  Ross  had  not  been  well,  but  had  been  riding 
out  every  day  and  enjoying  the  visit  with  his 
home  folks.  On  the  night  of  August  26th,  a  few 
minutes  after  retiring  for  the  night,  I  went  to 
his  room  and  found  that  "The  chariot  had  swung 
low,  come  to  carry  his  spirit  home."  After  the 
first  piercing  dart  of  anguish  and  a  cry  for 
Emory,  there  flashed  before  my  eyes,  as  in 
letters  of  fire,  "I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  for- 
sake thee."  "When  thou  passest  through  the 
waters,  I  will  be  with  thee."  All  my  life  I  had 
said  these  words,  but  now  they  were  an  eternal 
verity  to  my  soul — and  in  that  very  moment  I 
knew  that  Jesus,  the  Christ,  was  more  to  me  than 
husband  or  son.  I  went  out  that  summer  night 
and  sat  on  a  rustic  bench  where  he  and  I  had 

63 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

sat  the  night  before.  Some  young  people  over  in 
a  neighboring  church  were  singing: 

"What  a  wonderful  Saviour 
Is  Jesus,  my  Jesus— 
What  a  wonderful  Saviour 
Is  Jesus,  my  Lord." 

I  felt  that  they  sang  better  than  they  knew,  but 
I  prayed  that  they  too  might  keep  close  to  Jesus 
all  the  way,  and  that  when  their  crisis  hour  came, 
as  come  it  must  to  every  one  of  us,  that  they,  too, 
might  know  indeed  and  in  truth, 

"What  a  wonderful  Saviour 
Is  Jesus,  my  Jesus." 

Mr.  Ross's  brother  and  a  nephew  accom- 
panied me  back  to  Eureka.  On  our  way,  at  a 
station,  a  woman  dressed  in  the  deepest  mourn- 
ing, supported  by  two  strong  young  men,  came 
into  the  car.  She  was  moaning  and  crying  so 
piteously — her  grief  seemed  uncontrollable. 
Directly  I  went  back  to  see  if  I  could  help  her.  I 
asked,  "My  dear  woman,  what  is  the  cause  of 
your  grief?" 

"Oh,  Lady,  my  husband's  body  is  in  the  bag- 
gage car." 

"So  is  mine,"  I  answered  her. 

She  looked  up  at  me  in  dumb  amazement.  I 
asked:  "Are  these  your  two  fine  sons?  I  have 

64 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

just  one  and  he  is  10,000  miles  away  in  Africa. 
He  would  be  such  a  comfort  to  me  if  he  were 
here."  Then  I  told  of  Emory's  work  and  how 
glad  I  was  that  he  found  it  in  his  heart  to  serve 
the  dark  needy  people.  She  listened  and  quieted 
down,  and  rode  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  silence. 
When  the  train  drew  near  Eureka,  one  of  the 
sons  came  and  took  my  arm  and  walked  out  with 
me  and  thanked  me  for  the  words  I  had  spoken 
to  his  mother  and  the  way  my  own  faith  and  con- 
fidence had  strengthened  her.  I  was  glad  to  be 
able,  out  of  my  own  stricken  heart,  to  say  some- 
thing that  would  soothe  her  anguish. 

"Be  strong  to  bear,  O  heart  of  mine, 
Faint  not  when  sorrows  come, 

The  summits  of  these  hills  of  time 
Touch  the  blue  skies  of  home." 

I  have  read  that  migratory  birds  have  been 
discovered  six  miles  above  the  earth,  flying 
across  the  disc  of  the  sun.  They  have  found  out 
the  secret  places  of  the  most  High;  far  above 
the  earth,  invisible  to  the  human  eye,  hidden  in 
the  light.  They  are  delightfully  safe  from  fear 
or  evil.  Thus  it  is  with  the  soul  that  soars  into 
the  heavenly  places.  No  arrow  can  reach  it,  no 
fowler  can  ensnare  it,  no  creature  of  prey  can 
make  it  afraid.  "He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret 

65 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

place  of  the  Most  High  shall  abide  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Almighty." 

O,  what  a  vantage  ground  of  peace  and  joy 
and  confidence! 

We  brought  Mr.  Ross's  body  back  to  Eureka 
and  laid  it  "Under  the  green  tent  whose  curtain 
never  swings  outward," 

"Till  death  do  us  join." 

Mr.  Ross  and  I  had  contracted  with  the 
Trustees  of  Culver-Stockton  College  at  Canton, 
Mo.,  to  go  there  September  1st,  to  take  charge  of 
their  new  Hundred  Thousand  Dollar  dormitory. 
It  was  with  deep  sorrow  and  regret  that  Dr. 
Johann  and  the  Board  received  the  news  of  Mr. 
Ross's  sudden  death. 

Three  months  before  this  I  had  promised 
the  Iowa  Board  of  Missions  to  give  an  evening 
address  at  their  State  Convention  on  September 
8th  in  Keokuk.  Friends  urged  me  to  go,  but  I 
do  not  recall  that  I  ever  made  a  journey  with  so 
little  interest— just  numb,  dazed.  I  stood  before 
the  audience  that  night — I  do  not  know  one 
word  that  I  said,  but  I  do  remember  at  the  close 
of  the  meeting  that  I  clasped  hands  with  scores 
of  people  and  entered  upon  some  of  the  sweetest 
and  most  helpful  friendships  of  my  life.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  E.  L.  Aldrich  had  asked  to  have  me  in  their 
home.  The  warmth  and  genuineness  of  their 

66 


A  Road  of  Remembrance, 

welcome  was  like  balm  to  my  wounded  heart.  It 
was  as  grateful  to  me  as  was  ever  Blim's  shade 
to  the  children  of  Israel. 

The  next  morning  the  women  of  the  Iowa 
Board  came  and  asked  if  I  would  work  for  them 
in  Iowa.  It  seemed  just  as  if  the  Lord  had  said 
to  me,  "This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  therein."  That 
day  I  received  a  telegram  from  Dr.  Johann,  ask- 
ing me  to  meet  the  trustees  in  Canton  that  even- 
ing. I  went,  just  fearing  they  would  ask  me  to 
take  charge  of  the  dormitory.  They  did  not, 
but  wanted  me  to  make  my  home  there.  I  asked, 
"What  to  do?"  They  said,  "Not  anything,  just 
live  here."  I  made  every  excuse.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  could  stay  among  strangers."  I  recall 
so  well,  one  of  the  men  said,  "You  come  and  see 
if  we  treat  you  like  strangers."  I  told  them  I 
was  to  travel  and  work  for  Iowa,  that  I  would 
come  and  see  if  I  could  be  content  there.  I  sent 
to  Eureka,  Illinois,  for  my  trunk  and  went  up 
to  the  dormitory  on  the  hill.  I  have  since  traveled 
two  hundred  thousand  miles  in  forty-one  differ- 
ent States  and  Canada,  but  I  have  never  looked 
out  on  a  more  beautiful  scene  than  the  sunrise 
above  the  Father  of  Waters,  as  seen  from  my 
dormitory  window  at  Canton.  Sunrise  always  is 
to  me  a  kind  of  miracle.  The  daily  renewal  of 
the  earth  life  is  always  a  wonder.  Once  when 
Emory  came  to  visit  me,  I  did  what  Ruskin  did 

67 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

when  a  friend  visited  him  at  Brantwood.  I 
rapped  on  Emory's  door  and  asked,  "Have  you 
looked  out?" 

"The  Glory  of  the  Lord  God  came  in  by  way 
of  the  east  gate,  and  the  earth  shines  with  His 
Glory,  and  the  Glory  of  the  Lord  God  filled  His 
house."  And  the  young  people  of  the  college  too, 

"Open  for  me  the  eastern  windows 

That  look  toward  the  sun 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run." 

Our  greatest  aspirations  come  in  on  the 
wings  of  the  morning.  They  come  by  way  of 
new  dawnings,  new  revelations  through  the 
doors  of  expectancy  and  hope.  So  there  came  to 
me  through  those  glorious  sunrise  hours,  sur- 
rounded as  I  was  by  those  young  lives,  new 
hopes,  new  strength,  new  courage.  The  unfail- 
ing kindness  of  the  trustees  and  their  families, 
the  faculty,  and,  in  fact,  scores  of  friends  in 
Canton,  helped  me  through  those  hard  days  of 
loneliness  and  grief.  I  spent  many  happy  days 
there  "On  the  Heights."  I  follow  with  my  love 
and  prayers  all  the  splendid  young  people  who 
have  gone  out  from  Culver-Stockton  halls  and 
always  rejoice  to  hear  of  their  advancement  and 
success.  Some  of  her  most  loyal  sons  and  daugh. 
ters  are  serving  the  King  in  South  America, 

68 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

mdia  and  Japan,  while  others  are  in  prepara- 
tion to  go  as  ambassadors  of  Christ. 

Once  when  I  was  crossing  the  State  of  Iowa, 
I  had  a  blessed  experience.  A  man  and  woman 
came  into  the  train.  I  was  greatly  attracted  to 
them  and  just  felt  that  I  must  speak  to  them. 
They  sat  down  three  seats  back  of  me,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  car.  I  would  turn  and  look 
at  them  with  just  an  indescribable  feeling  that 
I  wanted  to  know  them.  Finally  I  got  up  my 
courage  to  go  speak  to  them.  There  were  leaf- 
lets spread  out  in  front  of  them.  I  said:  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  I  see  you  are  Christian 
workers."  "Yes,  we  are  missionaries  from 
Africa."  We  held  hands  till  the  train  whistled 
for  them  to  get  off.  They  knew  of  our  mission 
in  Africa,  gave  me  pictures  of  their  station,  and 
told  me  so  many  interesting  things.  Now,  if 
God  did  not  direct  my  thought  toward  those 
people,  I  don't  know  who  did.  It  was  some  per- 
son or  power  that  knew  there  was  a  joy  in  store 
for  me  across  the  aisle  in  that  car,  "Like  ships 
that  pass  in  the  night." 

Once  the  foot  ball  team  from  Culver-Stock- 
ton got  on  the  train  and  espied  me. 

"Well,  here's  Mother  Ross."  Some  one  yelled, 
"What's  the  matter  with  Mother  Ross?"  "She's 
all  right."  "Who's  all  right?"  "Mother  Ross." 
Everybody  in  the  train  was  made  acquainted 

69 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

with  me.  At  a  nearby  station  the  boys  got  off 
with  some  more  parting  yells  at  me.  Everybody 
in  the  car  was  looking  at  me.  A  woman  came 
over  to  me  and  said,  "You  must  be  from  the 
same  college  with  those  boys."  "Yes."  "We 
have  a  Mother  Ross  in  our  church  too,"  she  said. 
"O,  that  is  interesting,  what  church?"  I  asked. 
"The  Christian  Church.  She  has  just  one  son 
and  he  is  a  missionary  in  Africa."  I  let  her  go 
on  and  tell  all  she  knew  of  her  Mother  Ross, 
then  I  said,  "I  think  I  must  be  the  woman."  She 
called  her  husband  and  we  had  a  delightful 
journey  together  for  several  hours.  They  were 
from  Kansas;  had  been  visiting  in  Indiana. 

In  the  winter  of  1913  I  was  tried  out  on  the 
patient  and  long  suffering  people  of  Iowa.  I 
am  greatly  indebted  to  them  for  their  words  of 
encouragement  and  their  loyal  support.  I  have 
never  felt  worthy  of  all  the  fine  things  they  said 
to  me  of  my  work.  I  was  heartened  by  them  to 
accept  calls  from  other  states,  and  so  I  have  gone 
from  Boston  to  Los  Angeles,  and  from  New 
Orleans  to  Prince  Edward  Island.  I  have 
spoken  in  churches,  colleges,  clubs,  schools, 
factories,  picnics,  prisons,  jails,  old  peoples' 
homes,  orphanages  and  camps.  I  have  met  all 
kinds  of  people  in  all  the  different  walks  and 
conditions  of  life,  and  I  know  that  nothing  but 
the  love  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the  heart  is  sufficient 

70 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

to  satisfy  the  human  soul.  It  will  sweeten  every 
joy  and  lessen  every  sorrow.  It  will  turn  every 
darkness  into  light.  It  will  put  songs  of  praise 
on  the  lips  and  melody  in  the  heart.  I  have 
visited  people  who  have  lain  on  beds  of  pain  for 
years,  whose  faces  shone  like  the  faces  of  angels. 
I  met  a  man  in  a  wheel  chair  whose  body  was 
drawn  and  warped  almost  beyond  the  semblance 
of  a  man,  and  yet  he  radiated  light,  and  joy  and 
peace  to  all  about  him.  I  dined  in  a  home  where 
the  host  had  the  worst  birth  mark  covering  half 
of  his  face,  but  he  was  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful men,  so  animated,  so  interesting,  so  spiritual. 
I  saw  triumph  written  in  every  line  of  his  coun- 
tenance— his  spirit  had  conquered  the  flesh.  I 
was  in  a  happy  company  once  where  there  was  a 
young  bride,  a  stranger  in  the  community.  She 
was  so  deaf  that  she  wore  an  acoustican,  but  her 
beautiful  face  beamed,  her  eyes  sparkled,  as  she 
looked  upon  us  in  our  merriment.  She  could  not 
hear  a  word  we  said,  but  her  sensitive  soul 
caught  the  gladness  of  the  moment  and  she  was 
one  with  us.  She  was  a  brilliant  woman,  and 
when  it  was  her  turn  to  talk,  we  listened.  Such 
chaste  beautiful  language  and  such  artistic 
power  of  expression  and  description.  Another 
dear  gentle  woman  who  is  one  of  my  best  friends, 
has  ears  dull  of  hearing,  but  her  choice  spirit  is 
attuned  to  the  harmonies  of  life  and  I  am  always 

71 


blessed  in  her  presence.  Yes,  the  greatest  battles 
that  ever  were  fought  were  fought  in  the  hearts 
of  men. 

Iowa  seemed  a  far  away  land.  My  older 
brother  returned  home  after  the  Civil  War  with 
such  a  roving,  adventurous  spirit,  that  nothing 
would  satisfy  him  but  an  over-land  trip  to  the 
"wild  and  wooly  West."  It  was  a  mournful  day 
for  all  of  us  when  that  covered  wagon  pulled  out 
from  Winchester,  Indiana,  with  three  venture- 
some youths  bound  for  Iowa.  My  mother  lay  in 
a  darkened  room  with  a  wet  cloth  on  her  head 
and  we  children  tiptoed  through  the  house,  our 
minds  so  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  Indians  and 
wild  animals,  that  we  were  afraid  to  go  out  to 
our  playhouse.  From  1865,  "it's  a  long,  long 
way  to  Iowa"  in  1920.  I  have  spent  many 
months  in  that  beautiful  State  and  have  only 
seen  four  Indians  and  just  a  few  wild  things. 
Horace  Greeley's  advice,  "Go  West,  young  man," 
has  been  so  literally  fulfilled  that  the  whole 
country  is  taken  up  and  only  a  poet  knows  "Out 
where  the  West  begins." 


72 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Emory  came  home  for  his  first  vacation  by 
way  of  New  Orleans,  and  I  went  South  to  Ed- 
wards, Mississippi,  to  meet  him.  Myrta  Maud 
Pearson  was  teaching  there  that  year  in  the 
Southern  Christian  Institute,  preparatory  to  her 
work  in  Africa. 

The  Woman's  Board  decided  that  before  we 
put  up  any  permanent  buildings  in  Africa,  we 
would  explore  the  Ubangi  region  north  of  Congo. 
Emory  Ross  and  Dr.  Ernest  B.  Pearson  were 
appointed  on  that  commission.  They  left  for 
Central  Africa  in  the  fall  of  1915.  They  carried 
with  them  a  passport  from  our  government 
signed  by  Secretary  Lansing,  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction from  the  French  Consul  to  the  Congo 
General,  and  letters  from  Dr.  Royal  J.  Dye  and 
Mr.  Hensey.  But  one  day  I  was  reading  in  the 
Old  Book  and  I  saw  a  verse  that  brought  more 
assurance  than  any  of  these  letters.  I  found  it 
in  Ezekiel.  "So  now,  therefore,  although  I  have 
sent  you  out  among  the  nations  and  cast  you  off 
among  the  heathen,  yet  will  I  be  to  you  a  little 
sanctuary  in  the  countries  to  which  you  come." 
That  is  the  word  of  the  omnipotent  God,  and  He 
is  my  heavenly  Father. 

73 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"So  have  I  quieted  my  heart, 
So  have  I  kept  it  still, 
So  have  I  hushed  its  tremulous  start 
At  tidings  of  good  or  ill. 

So  have  I  silenced  my  soul 
In  a  peacefulness,  deep  and  broad, 
So  have  I  gathered  divine  control 
In  the  infinite  quiet  of  God." 

There  was  one  time  while  Emory  was  with 
the  exploring  party  in  the  Ubangi  country  that  I 
did  not  hear  from  him  for  six  months.  Then  a 
cablegram  came,  telling  of  safety.  I  got  down 
the  encyclopedia  and  read  how  Cyrus  W.  Field 
laid  the  cable,  and  how  grateful  I  was  for  his  in- 
domitable will  that  caused  him  to  keep  on,  al- 
though the  chains  broke  many  times.  How  in- 
debted the  whole  world  is  to  such  a  man,  and  yet, 
how  seldom  we  ever  think  of  him! 

I  kept  busy  through  all  the  years,  starting 
out,  as  I  said,  without  any  preparation;  but  a 
friend  said  that  I  had  been  preparing  for  forty 
years  for  just  such  work.  True,  I  had  been  a 
member  of  the  Woman's  Missionary  Society 
since  1875,  but  I  never  had  a  thought  of  doing 
public  work.  I  have  no  words  to  tell  what  these 
forty-five  years  of  elbow  touch,  this  fusion  of 
hearts,  has  meant  to  my  life. 

I  was  going  with  some  women  from  Peoria, 
74 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Illinois,  to  a  district  convention;  we  wore  our 
C.  W.  B.  M.  badges.  The  station  master  asked 
if  it  were  a  secret  society.  One  woman  answered, 
"No."  But  I  thought,  why  yes  it  is  a  secret 
society.  Where  have  we  so  felt  the  secret  of  His 
presence?  God  said,  "Eye  hath  not  seen  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart 
of  man,  the  things  that  God  hath  prepared  for 
those  that  love  Him."  And  again  Jesus  said, 
"To  him  that  doeth  the  will  of  God  shall  be  given 
to  know  the  mystery  of  the  kingdom."  So  I  am 
persuaded  that  it  is  a  secret  society  and  the 
eastern  star  that  shown  over  the  Judean  hills 
is  its  guide.  The  Christian  Woman's  Board  of 
Missions,  with  its  educational  and  benevolent 
program,  has  been  a  great  spiritual  blessing  to 
the  church,  ani  has  led  us  out  into  the  far 
reaches  of  the  kingdom. 

In  July,  1915,  I  went  to  California  to  the 
National  Convention.  I  journeyed  by  special, 
conducted  by  Mr.  George  Jewett  of  Des  Moines. 
There  were  seventy-five  people  in  the  party. 
This  long  trip  convinced  me  that  ours  is  a 
country  of  "magnificent  distances,"  and  I  do  not 
wonder  at  the  Englishman,  who  having  traveled 
for  five  days  from  New  York  without  seeing  the 
end,  said  to  a  fellow  traveler,  "I  don't  think  it  is 
strange  that  Columbus  discovered  America. 
How  could  he  help  but  discover  it?" 

75 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

One  of  the  rare  privileges  of  my  life  was  to 
visit  the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona.  It  is  a 
sublime  spectacle.  It  seems  infinitely  old  and  as 
permanent  as  peace.  No  pen  can  describe,  no 
artist  can  paint  it.  The  canyon  is  too  fresh  from 
God's  hand  to  conceive  it  in  terms  of  art.  One 
looks  across  miles  and  miles  of  tumult,  of  form, 
and  color,  that  seem  to  swirl  in  the  great  deep. 
People  are  affected  differently  by  the  awesome 
sight  of  this  gigantic  chasm.  Two  men,  a  clergy- 
man and  a  rough  scout,  stood  on  the  brink  to- 
gether. The  former  bared  his  head  and  ex- 
claimed reverently,  "Almighty  God,  how  won- 
drous are  thy  works!"  The  scout  raised  his 
hand  and  said  in  an  unsteady  voice,  "Good  Lord, 
can  you  beat  it?"  And  they  both  meant  much 
the  same  thing.  Anybody  who  can  look  unmoved 
upon  such  a  scene  and  not  feel  his  soul  stirred  is 
dead,  and  Gabriel's  trumpet  will  do  little  for 
him.  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I  went  out  and  sat 
on  the  rim.  I  went  as  Moses  approached  the 
burning  bush. 

Emory  met  me  in  Los  Angeles,  coming  from 
the  North,  where  he  had  been  with  the  Men  and 
Millions  team.  He  and  I  were  the  guests  of  the 
California  women  and  were  in  the  Bible  Institute 
Hotel,  where  all  the  sessions  were  held.  The 
first  morning  we  went  to  the  Roof  Garden  Prayer 
Meeting  and  there  we  met  "The  Angel  of  the 

76 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Church,"  as  Mr.  G.  M.  Anderson  calls  her  in 
the  June  World  Call  of  1920,  Mrs.  Mary  F.  Hoi- 
brook.  I  had  heard  of  her  in  her  old  home  at 
Onawa,  Iowa,  and  she  had  heard  of  me.  It  was  a 
case  of  love  at  iirst  sight.  She  invited  us  to  be 
her  guests  at  breakfast  through  the  convention, 
and  we  had  glorious  fellowship  hours  together. 

I  met  many  friends  from  Indiana  and  Illi- 
nois, now  living  in  California;  among  them 
some  nephews  and  nieces  of  mine,  and  they  did 
show  us  a  good  time.  We  spent  one  day  with 
several  others  out  at  the  beautiful  home  of  Mr. 
C.  C.  Chapman,  at  Fullerton.  It  was  my  first 
sight  of  a  large  orange  grove.  As  I  lifted  my 
hands  to  pull  an  orange  from  the  tree,  I  thought 
of  Mother  Eve.  If  the  apple  looked  as  enticing 
as  this  golden  fruit,  I  do  not  wonder  she  yielded 
to  the  temptation. 

Two  years  ago  Brother  Garrison  wrote  that 
Mr.  Chapman  had  struck  oil  on  his  farm  and  it 
was  running  six  thousand  barrels  a  day.  I  was 
glad  to  hear  it  and  was  not  at  all  surprised  to 
learn  that  he  had  given  $400,000.00  to  start  a 
Christian  College.  He  is  an  ardent  advocate  and 
liberal  supporter  of  religious  education.  Brother 
Chapman  knows  that  he  can't  take  his  money 
with  him,  but  he  can  send  it  on  ahead. 

I  heard  of  a  newly  rich  woman,  who  was 
very  ignorant.  She  sent  for  her  landscape  garde- 

77 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

ner  and  said,  "I  thought  I  would  like  to  have  one 
large  bed  of  Saliva."  "Oh,  yes,  Madam,  do,  and  I 
will  put  a  row  of  spittunias  around  it  and  I  hope 
it  will  come  up  to  your  expectorations."  Still 
another  newly  rich  woman  in  New  York  said, 
"I  have  a  new  coat  lined  with  vermin." 

A  Los  Angeles  woman,  with  her  Packard 
car,  came  to  take  Mr.  Hensey,  Emory  and  me  for 
a  ride.  There  were  seven  people  in  the  car,  but 
as  we  rode  and  were  about  to  pass  a  poorly 
dressed  man  walking,  she  slowed  up  and  called 
out  to  him,  "Are  you  going  far?"  "Five  miles," 
he  answered.  "Jump  on  the  step  and  ride,"  she 
said.  The  incident  reminded  me  of  a  short 
biography  that  I  had  read,  "And  He  went  about 
doing  good."  I  have  seen  other  women  riding 
in  big  cars  with  nothing  but  a  poodle  dog  for 
company.  I  read  a  fine  tribute  paid  to  Alexander 
Stevens  by  his  black  servant,  "Marse  Alex,  is 
better  to  dogs  than  some  folks  is  to  other  folks." 
"I  often  wonder  why  it  is  that  we  are  not  all 
kinder  than  we  are.  How  much  the  world  needs 
it.  How  easily  it  is  done.  How  instantaneously 
it  acts.  How  infallibly  it  is  remembered.  How 
superabundantly  it  pays  itself  back,  for  there  is 
no  debtor  in  the  world  so  honorable,  so  superbly 
honorable,  as  love." — Henry  Drummond. 

How  often  Jesus  said,  "Father,  I  have  mani- 
fested Thy  name  unto  the  world." 

78 


A  Rocul  of  Remembrance 

In  a  banker's  home  in  Kansas  they  kept  a 
colored  maid,  Katie.  At  nine  o'clock  my  hostess 
came  to  my  room  and  asked  if  I  were  too  tired 
to  go  tell  Katie  and  her  boy  friend  about  Jacob 
and  his  work  in  Africa.  "It  will  be  such  an  in- 
centive to  them,"  she  said.  What  a  beautiful 
thought  that  was!  I've  loved  that  woman  ever 
since. 

In  another  southern  home  there  was  ham- 
mering and  noise.  The  lady  said,  "We  are  hav- 
ing another  room  built  on  for  Caroline,  our 
colored  woman.  She  has  lived  with  us  thirty 
years  and  helped  raise  all  the  children;  now  she 
is  old  and  can  never  work  any  more,  and  we 
want  to  make  her  comfortable  and  happy.  It 
would  break  her  heart  to  leave  us  and  go  live 
with  her  sister." 

A  Nebraska  home  took  three  orphaned 
children  when  their  widowed  mother  died.  The 
man  wrote  to  the  grandfather  in  Sweden,  but  in 
two  weeks  time  they  regretted  having  written, 
they  were  so  attached  to  the  children.  No  word 
has  ever  come  from  the  grandparents  and  this 
beautiful  home  is  made  glad  by  this  young  life. 
Manifesting  the  Father's  name! 

Another  Iowa  man  and  woman  had  taken  a 
boy  from  the  orphanage.  When  he  was  six  years 
old,  they  went  again  to  the  home  for  another 
child.  When  I  was  with  them,  the  wee  baby  was 

79 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

nine  months  old  and  was  just  beginning  to  raise 
its  head.  I  asked,  "How  did  you  happen  to  take 
a  sick  baby?"  "Oh,  Mrs.  Ross,  it  looked  no  piti- 
ful, and  I  thought,  'why  nobody  will  ever  take 
you,  poor  little  thing.'  I  just  could  not  leave  it." 
I  know  that  this  woman's  heart  must  have 
learned  much  of  the  compassion  of  Christ  toward 
the  physical  needs  of  men.  Pour-fifths  of  his  re- 
corded miracles  had  to  do  with  the  relief  of 
men's  bodies. 

I  know  a  young  lady  of  considerable  means, 
who  supports  her  own  missionary  out  in  China. 
She  went  south  to  visit  one  of  our  schools  for 
negroes,  found  they  were  short  of  help,  and 
stayed  as  a  teacher.  She  is  very  happy  in  the 
work.  I  know  a  cultured,  university  trained 
woman,  who  was  for  three  years  Mrs.  Russell 
Sage's  private  secretary,  who  is  a  teacher  in  a 
colored  school. 

President  Ware,  of  Atlanta  University,  was 
once  asked  how  he,  with  his  rare  scholarship  and 
culture,  could  bear  to  work  among  the  negroes. 
"O,  I'm  color  blind,"  he  said.  Wasn't  he  like 
Jesus  of  whom  it  was  said,  "He  was  not 
ashamed  to  call  them  brethren." 

A  beautiful  woman  in  Indianapolis  enter- 
tains frequently  the  Chinese  students  in  the 
University.  She  is  helping  to  establish  "Inter- 
national Christian  Relationships"  of  which  we 

80 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

hear  so  much  in  these  days.  Dr.  Edward  Steiner 
says,  "Jesus  Christ  was  the  first  to  have  an  in- 
ternational mind  and  an  interracial  heart." 
Harry  Emerson  Fosdick  says,  "  A  Christianity 
that  is  not  international  has  never  known  its 
Master."  "He  hath  made  of  one  blood  every 
nation  of  men  to  dwell  on  all  the  face  of  the 
earth."  It  is  the  growing  realization  of  this 
truth  that  is  causing  a  gradual  disuse  of  the 
word  "foreign"  in  connection  with  missions. 
"The  field  is  the  world,"  said  Jesus,  and  we  must 
be  World  Christians  (not  worldly  Christians)  if 
\vo  are  to  be  like  Him. 

A  visit  to  Bethany  College  was  a  glad  ex- 
perience for  me.  Spent  a  day  with  Mrs.  Decima 
Campbell  Barclay,  the  tenth  child  of  Alexander 
Campbell,  in  his  old  home.  She  was  nearing  her 
eightieth  year,  a  woman  of  rare  intellect  and 
possessed  of  a  good  memory.  She  was  a  charm- 
ing hostess.  She  told  us  much  of  her  father  and 
of  the  great  men  who  gathered  in  his  home  to 
spend  days  of  intercourse;  Judge  Jeremiah 
Black,  Jefferson  Davis,  Abraham  Lincoln,  James 
A.  Garfield  and  others,  who  were  intimate 
friends  in  their  home.  The  house  is  old  and 
quaint,  the  furniture,  most  of  it,  two  hundred 
years  old.  An  octagon  brick  building  without  a 
window,  just  a  skylight,  was  Mr.  Campbell's 
study.  He  said  he  got  his  light  from  above.  The 

81 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

piano  that  was  bought  for  her  stood  in  what  she 
called  the  new  parlor  where  the  fine  embossed 
paper  had  been  on  the  wall  for  seventy-five 
years.  We  asked  her  to  play.  She  said  she  didn't 
play  any  sacred  music,  just  "Money  Musk"  and 
jigs.  So  she  jigged  for  us.  This  last  winter  in 
Bartow,  Florida,  the  lady  with  whom  I  stopped 
said,  "Mrs.  Ross,  I'll  put  you  in  Mrs.  Barclay's 
room."  She  went  South  every  winter  to  escape 
the  rigorous  climate  of  the  North.  Now  she  has 
heard  her  Master's  call,  and  has  gone  where  the 
many  mansions  be. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  the  spring  of  1917,  Emory  entered  the 
University  of  Chicago  for  some  special  work.  He 
secured  a  suite  of  furnished  rooms  in  the  Uni- 
versity apartments,  kept  for  ministers'  and  mis- 
sionaries' families.  It  was  my  first  chance  to 
keep  house  in  twenty  years,  and  I  went  so  joy- 
ously to  the  task.  My  ardor  was  somewhat 
dampened  when  I  saw  the  condition  of  the 
rooms.  Mrs.  E.  M.  Bowman  was  in  New  York 
when  she  heard  we  were  in  Chicago.  She  wrote 
me  to  have  the  University  workman  clean,  paint 
and  kalsomine  and  send  her  the  bill.  "I  am 
writing  the  Committee,  too,  and  you  will  hear 
from  them,"  she  wrote.  In  a  few  days  there  was 
brought  up  an  Axminster  rug  for  our  living 
room,  runner  for  the  hall,  linoleum  for  the  kitch- 
en, dishes,  linen,  everything  that  was  needed 
for  our  comfort.  I  think  I  was  never  so  happy 
over  any  material  gift,  unless  it  was  when  some 
Iowa  friends  had  given  me  a  seal  skin  coat. 
Always  when  there  is  a  kindness  shown  me,  I 
try  to  pass  it  on,  so  I  paid  for  a  term  of  music 
lessons  for  a  little  child  who  could  not  other- 
wise have  had  that  privilege.  I  felt  so  especially 
favored  by  Mrs.  Bowman,  but  I've  found  out 

83 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

since  that  I  am  only  one  of  many  whose  way  she 
brightens  by  her  loving  generosity. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  E.  Gorden  and  their  two 
lovely  children,  Margaret  and  Laddie,  lived  in 
the  flat  below  us,  and  how  we  did  enjoy  our 
neighbors.  They  had  their  family  worship  at  the 
breakfast  table  and  they  would  sing  our  Chris- 
tian hymns  in  Hindi.  They  had  choice  mis- 
sionary friends  in  the  University  and  frequently 
had  them  over  for  an  evening,  and  we  were 
always  invited  to  join  the  group.  The  ends  of 
the  earth  were  brought  very  near  to  us  as  we 
listened  to  the  stories  of  the  different  lands 
where  these  men  and  women  had  worked. 

I  attended  lectures  in  Mandel  Hall.  I  heard 
Ralph  Connor  tell,  "Why  Canada  went  to  War." 
I  heard  Harry  Emerson  Posdick.  I  had  become 
so  familiar  with  his  books,  "Meaning  of  Prayer" 
and  "The  Manhood  of  the  Master,"  that  I  felt  I 
was  listening  to  a  friend.  Other  great  men  came 
to  that  platform,  but  it  remained  for  a  woman  to 
receive  the  greatest  ovation.  The  whole  audi- 
ence arose  as  she  was  presented  as  "Chicago's 
greatest  citizen,"  Miss  Jane  Addams.  The 
great  teacher  told  us,  "He  that  would  be  the 
greatest  among  you,  let  him  be  the  servant  of 
all."  Miss  Addams  has  won  her  distinction, 
according  to  our  Lord's  pattern.  "They  bear  the 
palm  best  who  only  wish  to  serve." 

84 


EMORY  ROSS  AND  MYRTA  PEARSON  ROSS 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

The  fellowship  we  had  with  the  different 
churches  in  Chicago  was  so  helpful  and  enjoy- 
able. Along  about  the  middle  of  June  I  knew  I 
was  to  yield  my  place  as  housekeeper  and  home- 
maker  to  another.  I  put  the  house  in  perfect 
order.  Emory  preceded  me  a  few  days  to  Eureka. 
I  waited  for  a  sister  and  niece  from  Cleveland  to 
join  me  to  go  down  for  the  wedding.  June  15, 
1917,  shone  clear  and  bright.  It  was  Commence- 
ment Day  and  many  of  the  former  students  were 
back.  The  ceremony  was  in  the  church  at  three 
o'clock.  Dr.  Ernest  Pearson  pronounced  the 
words  that  made  Emory  Ross  and  Myrta  Maude 
Pearson  husband  and  wife.  There  are  souls  that 
are  created  for  one  another  in  the  eternities; 
hearts  that  are  predestined  each  to  each  from 
the  absolute  necessities  of  their  [nature,  and 
when  this  man  and  woman  come  face  to  face, 
their  hearts  throb  and  are  one.  This  was  one  of 
the  mountain  peaks  of  joy  in  my  whole  life.  I 
lived  over  my  own  happy  wedding  day.  My  in- 
most thought  refuses  to  be  imprisoned  in  my 
vocabulary,  and  I  cannot  tell  all  that  my  heart 
felt  on  that  glad  June  day  that  brought  into  my 
life  a  daughter.  A  reception  was  held  at  the 
Pearson  home.  There  wasn't  a  more  beautiful 
woman  in  that  happy  company  than  Myrta's 
grandmother,  ninety-two  years  of  age,  clad  in  a 
drab  silk  with  creamy  lace  about  her  neck, 

85 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

snowy  white  hair,  a  soft,  dreamy,  far-away  look 
in  her  eye,  and  she  told  me  afterward  that  it 
made  her  think  of  her  own  marriage  in  St. 
Pancras  Church  in  London,  a  church  that  has 
stood  three  hundred  years.  Dr.  Ernest  Pearson, 
her  grandson,  on  one  of  his  trips  to  Africa,  was 
privileged  to  attend  a  wedding  in  this  same 
church.  "There  is  a  beauty  of  youth  and  a 
beauty  of  old  age;  the  first  is  given  to  us,  the 
second  we  earn."  This  mother  in  Israel  had 
earned  her  beauty.  "As  the  lamp  that  shineth 
upon  the  holy  candlestick,  so  is  the  beauty  of  the 
face  in  ripe  age."  She  has  since  been  called 
away  "unto  the  marriage  supper  of  the  Lamb." 

It  was  such  a  joyous  company  that  con- 
gratulated the  young  couple  and  wished  for  them 
the  choicest  blessings.  It  was  scarcely  fair  that 
Emory  and  Myrta  should  have  made  Dr.  Pearson 
perform  the  ceremony,  when  he  was  a  doctor  and 
not  a  preacher.  Doctor  got  even  with  Emory  a 
few  months  later  when  Miss  Evelyn  Utter  went 
out  to  Africa  to  become  his  bride  and  Emory  had 
to  say  the  words. 

After  a  few  weeks  I  went  up  to  Chicago  to 
visit  them  and  learn  what  kind  of  a  mother-in- 
law  I  would  make.  I  could  only  stay  a  few  days, 
for  I  must  be  off  to  fill  my  dates.  We  three  went 
together  to  our  Kansas  City  Convention  and 
were  entertained  in  a  beautiful  home.  We 

86 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

stopped  off  at  Mexico,  Missouri,  for  an  evening, 
for  I  did  want  the  children  to  see  and  know  the 
dear  people  there.  The  time  was  drawing  near 
for  them  to  leave  for  Africa.  I  went  to  Eureka 
to  be  with  them  that  last  Sunday.  Soon  after  I 
got  in  they  had  a  most  urgent  call  to  go  to  Nian- 
tic.  It  was  hard  for  them  to  do,  but  they  went 
They  spoke  on  Sunday  morning  and  a  good  man 
in  that  church  gave  them  one  hundred  dollars 
to  buy  them  a  victrola.  So  I  was  real  glad 
that  I  hadn't  objected  to  their  going.  I  de- 
cided later  that  I  would  go  with  them  to  New 
Orleans  to  see  them  off.  We  had  to  stop  off 
at  Memphis,  Tennessee,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter 
M.  White  had  so  decreed.  We  reached  there 
at  midnight  and  left  at  nine  the  next  morning. 
I  have  made  up  for  it  since  though,  as  I  now 
take  from  two  to  six  weeks  to  change  cars  at 
Memphis.  We  were  sorry  afterward  that  we  did 
not  stay  longer,  for  the  boat  did  not  sail  for  a 
week.  We  had  just  gotten  well  settled  in  our 
hotel  in  New  Orleans  when  some  church  friends 
came  to  take  us  out  for  a  lunch  and  a  drive. 
They  kept  that  up  for  a  week,  thinking  every  day 
would  be  the  last.  The  time  of  sailing  was  very 
uncertain  and  secret.  The  ship  was  strictly 
guarded.  The  customs  officer  doubted  if  they 
would  let  me  go  on  the  ship  at  all,  but  the  day 
they  were  to  get  their  baggage  down,  Emory  told 
me  to  linger  on  the  dock  till  nearly  every  one 

87 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

had  gone.  My  friends,  Mrs.  Jetmore  and  her 
three  children,  stayed  with  me.  Just  at  dusk 
Emory  and  the  old  English  Captain  came  down. 
Emory  introduced  us  and  the  Captain  said, 
"Madam  Ross,  bring  your  friends  and  come  on 
shipboard  and  take  dinner  with  us."  We  accepted 
with  alacrity.  I  never  had  been  on  a  sea-going 
vessel  and  I  was  surprised  at  the  luxury;  Stein- 
way  piano,  beautiful  pictures,  brass  furni- 
ture, and  red  velvet  carpet  "knee  deep  in  June." 
It  was  the  most  formal  dinner  I  ever  attended. 
Seven  courses  and  five  knives  and  forks  at  each 
plate.  I  had  to  watch  the  Captain  to  know  which 
one  to  use.  Hindu  waiters  in  oriental  costumes 
and  orchestra  music.  The  last  piece  they  played 
on  the  victrola  was  John  McCormick's  "O,  send 
me  away  with  a  smile."  I  took  the  hint.  I  left 
at  ten  o'clock  and  came  back  at  eight  the  next 
morning.  We  had  our  pictures  taken  on  board. 
We  had  two  happy  hours  together,  then  the 
gong  sounded,  and  I  said  good-bye  to  the  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  P.  Hedges  and  son,  Dr. 
Pearson  and  Myrta.  Emory  came  down  the 
plank  with  me;  we  sat  in  the  auto  together  for 
just  a  little  time,  "A  moment  of  immortality," 
then  he  went  back  up  the  gang  plank.  I  followed 
out  and  stood  on  the  dock.  Just  at  this  time,  as 
if  to  break  the  tensity,  Mrs.  Gwinn  hurried  up 
the  plank  with  three  dozen  American  Beauty 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

roses  and  five  pounds  of  candy  from  the  church 
ladies  for  Myrta  and  Mrs.  Hedges.  That  gave  a 
sweetness  and  aroma  to  the  occasion.  I  thought 
there  would  be  a  clanking  of  chains  and  ringing 
of  bells  and  blowing  of  whistles,  but  to  my 
astonishment  that  ship  glided  out  like  a  swan 
upon  the  water,  and  I  didn't  know  they  were 
going  until  I  saw  the  water  widening  between 
them  and  me. 

"The  anchor  is  lifted,  the  sails  are  set, 
The  waves  are  dancing  in  glee ; 
Away  from  her  moorings  the  trim  craft  slips, 
There's     a     good-bye     smile     from     those 

precious  lips, 
And  there's  one  more  ship  at  sea." 

My  heart  strings  tugged  and  strained  until 
it  seemed  they  would  snap  in  two,  but  I  stood 
there  and  waved  and  smiled  (sort  of  cama- 
flouge),  and  never  shed  a  tear.  I  watched  that 
ship  until  it  was  just  a  speck  on  the  horizon, 
then  turned  away.  My  son  wrote  me  afterward 
that  he  saw  me  plainly  when  I  turned  and  got 
into  the  auto,  for  he  was  looking  through  his 
strong  binoculars. 

There  was  to  be  a  meeting  at  three  o'clock 
that  afternoon  and  my  sympathetic  hostess  said 
I  must  not  try  to  go,  but  I  asked  to  be  left  alone 
in  my  room  until  the  hour,  and  I  would  be  ready. 

89 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

She  respected  my  wishes,  only  sending  the  maid 
up  at  twelve  o'clock  with  the  most  appetizing 
lunch.  We  went  to  the  parsonage  and  had  a 
good  meeting.  I  can  never  forget  the  kindness  of 
Brother  and  Sister  William  Allen  and  others  in 
New  Orleans. 

I  went  into  Texas  for  a  month's  work; 
stopped  a  few  days  at  Southern  Christian  Insti- 
tute, Edwards,  Mississippi.  I  heard  a  lecture  one 
time  "bound  Texas."  He  said  it  was  bounded  on 
the  north  by  the  Aurora  Borealis,  on  the  east  by 
the  rising  sun,  on  the  south  by  the  equator,  and 
on  the  west  by  the  Judgment  Day.  All  the  people 
who  live  in  Texas  would  think  this  was  not  over- 
drawn. A  secretary  from  Texas  was  at  our  Col- 
lege of  Missions  once  at  a  banquet,  where  thirty- 
two  women  were  each  to  riset  introduce  herself, 
and  tell  what  State  she  was  from,  etc.  This 
loyal  Texas  woman  told  us  many  wonderful 
things  about  her  state,  and  ended  her  speech  by 
saying  that  if  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth 
were  put  down  in  Texas,  there  would  only  be  ten 
to  the  acre.  Her  listeners  just  groaned;  they 
knew  that  nobody  could  outreach  her  unless  it 
was  the  woman  from  Kentucky.  My  turn  came 
next.  I  was  born  in  Indiana  and  could  boast  of 
the  greatest  number  of  the  Literati,  but  I  would 
have  to  confess  that  Texas  had  produced  the 
most  talked  of  man  at  the  time,  the  man  who  was 

90 


A  Hood  of  Remembrance 

most  in  the  limelight,  Jack  Johnson.  That 
Texas  secretary  has  had  it  in  for  me  ever  since, 
and  she  is  only  biding  her  time  to  get  even.  I 
never  have  found  bigger  hearted  people  than  in 
Texas.  I  was  exposed  to  a  bit  of  snow  in  my 
travels  in  that  sunny  Southland,  was  taken  ill 
and  had  bronchial  pneumonia.  An  assistant 
secretary,  Mrs.  Berta  McMasters,  was  with  me 
and  took  me  into  one  of  the  dormitories  of  Texas 
Christian  University.  There  she  and  Mrs.  King 
and  others  gave  me  the  tenderest  care.  They 
called  the  best  doctor  and  a  trained  nurse.  I 
knew  by  their  looks  that  they  thought  my  case 
was  serious.  But  the  next  morning  when  I  asked 
the  doctor  if  he  knew  which  way  a  pin  goes,  he 
thought  it  had  gone  to  my  head.  But  I  insisted 
that  he  tell  me  which  way  a  pin  goes.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said.  "Well,  it  is  hard  to  tell,  for  it  is 
pointed  one  way  and  headed  the  other."  I  think 
he  had  hopes  for  me  from  that  time  on.  One  day 
when  I  had  a  sinking  spell,  those  women  fixed 
up  a  toddy  for  me.  They  tell  it  on  me  that  I 
smacked  my  lips  and  said,  "My,  but  that  is  good. 
I  haven't  tasted  one  for  forty-five  years." 

There  was  no  one  in  the  town  that  I  had 
ever  seen  except  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clifford  Weaver, 
and  they  were  constant  and  devoted  in  their 
care  for  me.  Women  unknown  to  me  sent  me 
fresh  eggs  every  day,  buttermilk,  and  peach  pre- 
91 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

serves,  bed-room  slippers  and  lysol,  flowers, 
fruits  and  sweet  cream.  Relatives  thought  it  was 
so  sad  that  I  had  to  be  sick  among  strangers,  but 
I  didn't  see  anything  sad  about  it.  I  was  per- 
fectly taken  up  with  my  doctor,  and  I  think  that 
helped  me  to  get  well.  He  was  a  fine,  large, 
handsome,  fifty  year  old  Texan.  One  day  I  asked 
him,  "How  did  it  come  that  they  took  the  best 
looking  man  in  Texas  and  made  a  doctor  out  of 
him?"  I  saw  that  it  pleased  him,  though  he  was 
a  little  embarrassed.  When,  some  weeks  later, 
I  asked  for  my  bill,  he  said  it  was  nothing.  Now 
those  attending  women  tell  that  it  was  because  I 
called  him  handsome  that  he  made  no  charge 
for  services.  But  I  knew  it  was  because  he  was 
so  surprised  that  I  lived,  and  was  so  thankful 
that  God  skilled  him  in  the  right  use  of  his 
knowledge  to  save  me  for  the  boy  over  in  Africa. 
I  am  mighty  grateful  to  Dr.  Woodward  and  all 
the  friends  who  helped  to  pull  me  through.  I 
know  that  God  still  has  work  for  me  to  do. 

I  had  a  lark  in  my  convalescing  days  with 
those  Texas  Christian  University  students,  and 
was  able,  before  I  left,  to  give  Chapel  talks  and 
play  some  games  with  them  in  the  evenings. 
Camp  Bowie,  with  40,000  soldiers,  was  in  plain 
view  from  my  window.  I  met  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
Secretary,  and  he  invited  me  out  for  a  Sunday 
afternoon  meeting.  I  was  so  glad  to  go,  but 

92 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

when  I  was  getting  out  of  the  auto,  he  said, 
"Mother  Ross,  we  have  two  speakers  today,  but 
I  want  you  to  have  a  word  too."  "Oh,  no,  I  can't 
do  that,"  I  said.  But  he  marched  me  onto  the 
platform  with  two  dignified  divines.  I  sat  there  in 
a  nervous  tremor  wondering  what  I'd  say  to  that 
strange  looking  audience.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  whole  40,000  had  turned  out;  seats,  aisles 
and  windows  were  full  of  khaki-clad  fellows. 
When  I  got  up  they  all  looked  alike  to  me.  I 
asked  the  Lord  to  steady  me.  I  said,  "Boys, 
when  you  get  out  in  front  of  the  guns,  if  you  are 
as  scared  as  I  am  right  now,  you'll  never  hit 
anybody."  They  gave  me  an  ovation,  a  regular 
khaki  ovation,  and  I  was  encouraged  to  go  on. 
"It  is  our  hearers  who  inspire  us,"  says  some 
great  preacher.  Those  boys  were  certainly  an 
inspiration  to  me.  I  could  have  talked  as  long 
as  Paul  did,  but  I  didn't  want  any  of  them  to  fall 
out  of  the  windows  and  break  their  necks.  I 
went  there  every  time  I  had  a  chance,  and  also 
out  to  the  Aviation  Camps.  I  found  one  of  my 
Eureka  boys  at  Benbrooke  Field.  One  of  the 
boys  said,  "O,  Mother  Ross,  you  don't  know  how 
fine  it  is  to  be  way  up  above  the  clouds,  light  and 
airy,  and  no  fear."  I  let  them  finish,  then  I  said, 
"Yes,  boys,  I  know  all  about  it,  I  belong  to  the 
Aviation  Corps  myself.  I  live  above  the  clouds 
all  the  time.  I  am  upheld  and  sustained  and 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

have  no  fear,  because  the  everlasting  arms  are 
round  about  me.  When  you  get  out  yonder  in 
"No  Man's  Land,"  maybe  your  planes  will  come 
down  and  you  be  mangled  and  hurt,  but  I  pray 
that  you  may  still  be  confident  and  secure  be- 
cause of  your  trust  in  Him."  I  don't  see  how  a 
child  of  God  can  live  in  the  low  lands.  No  good 
thing  will  He  withhold  from  them  that  love  Him, 
is  his  sure  promise. 

"Ye  have  not  chosen  me,  but  I  have  chosen 
you  and  ordained  you,  that  you  should  go  forth 
and  bear  fruit,  and  that  your  fruit  might  remain ; 
that  whatsoever  ye  ask  of  my  Father,  in  my 
name,  He  will  give  it  you."  There  is  Jesus'  sure 
word  and  promise,  conditioned  in  our  bearing 
fruit.  Paul  tells  us  that  He  is  able  to  give  us 

All  that  we  ask; 
All  that  we  ask  or  think; 
Above  all  that  we  ask  or  think; 
Abundantly  all  that  we  ask  or  think ; 
Exceedingly  abundantly  above  all  that  we 
ask  or  think. 

We  Christians  are  the  richest  people  on  earth. 
"All  things  are  yours,  and  ye  are  Christ's  and 
Christ  is  God's."  A  hundred  fold  in  this  world 
and  in  the  world  to  come  life  everlasting.  But 
it  takes  a  wholly  surrendered  life  to  claim  these 
promises.  Real  prayer  means  the  breaking 

Q4 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

down  in  the  secret  places  of  the  heart  in  full  and 
free  submission  to  the  will  of  God.  And  so,  and 
only  so,  does  the  inner  life  become  a  great  high- 
way for  the  transmission  of  God's  message. 

I  made  a  ludicrous  mistake  one  day.  I  went  to 
introduce  a  soldier  friend  to  some  of  the  college 
girls.  His  name  was  Gus  Rammage.  I  guess  I 
must  have  been  excited,  for  I  said,  "Young  ladies, 
I  want  you  to  meet  my  friend,  Mr.  Gas  Rummage" 
After  I  came  North,  on  Mother's  Day  I  received 
through  the  mail  a  small  khaki-covered  Testa- 
ment, and  on  the  fly  leaf  I  read,  "To  Mother  Ross 
from  Gas  Rummage."  I  prize  that  little  book 
and  carry  it  with  me  all  the  time.  That  mistake 
was  not  as  bad  as  the  one  an  angry  woman  made 
when  she  found  some  one  sitting  in  her  pew  at 
church.  She  said  to  the  usher,  "Some  one  is 
pitting  in  my  sew."  He  replied,  "Oh,  yes,  Madam, 
I'll  sow  you  to  another  sheet." 

That  experience  with  a  soldier  audience  al- 
most spoiled  me  for  just  plain  church  audiences. 
No  church  people  ever  stamped  their  feet  and 
yelled  their  appreciation  of  me.  Every  time  I 
had  a  chance,  I  went  to  a  camp;  I  visited  eigh- 
teen in  all.  My  stay  in  Houston,  Texas,  was  in  a 
home  where  I  reminded  them  so  much  of  a  dear 
mother  who  had  slipped  away  just  a  short  time 
before.  They  cordially  urged  me  to  come  and 
spend  a  winter  with  them,  and  about  Christmas 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

she  mailed  me  a  picture  of  a  dinner  table  with 
one  vacant  chair,  and  that  was  for  me.  She  is 
one  young  mother  who  prays  earnestly  that  her 
only  son  may  give  his  life  to  mission  work.  She 
is  a  wonderfully  gifted  woman;  she  can  do  so 
many  things.  I  asked  if  there  was  anything  she 
couldn't  do,  and  she  said,  "I've  done  everything 
but  make  a  circus  tent,  and  I  think  I  could  do 
that."  "My  Rose  Garden,"  which  appeared  in 
one  of  our  recent  Sunday  School  papers,  shows 
how  she  works  with  human  flowers,  girls.  I  do 
hope  I  may  some  day  go  and  spend  a  few  weeks 
in  that  dear  home. 

I  went  into  a  southern  city  and  was  met  by  a 
beautiful  young  woman,  but  there  was  a  hurt 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  her  hair  was  white  as  with 
the  snows  of  sixty  winters.  I  knew,  at  once,  that 
there  must  be  some  deep  sorrow  in  her  life. 
When  we  reached  the  home  I  learned  of  a  little 
twelve  year  old  afflicted  boy.  The  mother 
showed  me  his  picture  taken  when  he  was  four 
years  old,  a  well  formed,  beautiful  child,  but  soon 
after  that  a  dreadful  malady  had  fastened  itself 
upon  him,  and  for  ten  years  the  little  body  had 
been  limp  and  helpless,  paroxysms  of  intense 
pain.  The  agony  of  those  years  had  left  its  im- 
press upon  these  devoted  parents. 

I  was  in  the  home  again  recently.  They 
took  me  out  to  the  cemetery  to  look  at  a  little 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

mound  of  earth  covered  with  flowers,  and  to  tell 
me  that  early  on  last  Easter  morning  they 
carried  the  body  of  the  child  here,  for  his  spirit 
had  taken  its  flight  to  that  land  where  there  is  no 
sickness,  no  pain.  The  faithful,  black  boys  who 
had  cared  for  the  little  lad  through  all  his  suffer- 
ing years  carried  him  to  this,  his  last  resting 
place,  and  tenderly  covered  the  casket  with  earth. 
"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life"  came  to 
these  young  parents  with  new  meaning  on  that 
Easter  morning.  The  father  is  a  man  of  large 
business  interests,  but  he  begins  every  day  with 
a  season  of  prayer  and  consecration.  He  calls 
the  colored  servants  from  the  kitchen,  and  we 
read  from  the  word  of  God  and  kneel  together  to 
praise  and  adore  His  matchless  name  and  to  seek 
His  guidance  for  the  day.  There  is  a  calmness 
and  serenity  in  that  home  that  I  do  not  always 
find.  That  home  has  been  purified  and  purged 
as  by  fire,  and  the  chastened  souls  radiate  light 
and  beauty  as  of  pure  gold.  A  strength  and 
blessedness  of  spirit  come  to  me  as  I  remember 
the  days  I  tarried  there. 

I  started  North  just  in  time  to  reach  Mem- 
phis for  the  Easter  Sunday.  Memphis  is  one  of 
my  homes.  The  parsonage  there,  occupied  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walter  M.  White  and  five  lively 
girls,  is  a  haven  of  delight  to  me,  with  not  one 
dull  moment.  I  was  to  rest  there  six  weeks.  I 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

spoke  twenty-four  times  and  was  out  to  twenty- 
four  dinners  and  luncheons.  It  seemed  to  agree 
with  me.  I  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  again.  The 
Linden  Street  Church  has  its  prayer  meeting  at 
noon  on  Wednesday.  It  is  a  down  town  church 
and  I've  seen  one  hundred  at  the  prayer  meet- 
ing. A  cafeteria  lunch  is  served  and  it  proves  to 
be  a  happy  arrangement  for  the  business  men. 
They  come  in  and  are  refreshed  in  body  and 
spirit.  It  has  seemed  the  very  gate  of  heaven  to 
me  when  I've  been  with  them.  This  church  has 
the  most  aesthetic  Aid  Society  I've  ever  seen. 
"Daughters  of  Linden"  they  call  themselves.  I've 
heard  Aid  Societies  called  "Busy  Bees."  That 
name  is  capable  of  too  many  different  meanings. 
"Willing  Workers,"  "Handmaidens,"  nothing 
quite  so  euphonious  as  "Daughters  of  Linden." 
And  to  attend  one  of  their  meetings,  one  feels 
that  she  has  been  out  in  society  sure  enough. 
The  women  wear  their  best  clothes,  they  have 
music  and  flowers  and  dainty  refreshments,  and 
reports  of  work  done  that  make  the  heart  glad. 
The  McLemore  Church  is  great,  too.  I  was 
there  on  Sunday  morning  when  four  men  spoke, 
each  of  them  five  minutes,  then  I  was  to  have 
twenty-five.  That  showed  how  chivalrous  those 
men  were  to  give  the  woman  five  times  as  long 
to  talk.  A  man  named  Glass  came  up  and  gave 
a  blackboard  performance  that  brought  four 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

thousand  dollars  in  ten  minutes.  I  heard  a  Greek 
scholar  say  that  in  the  sentence,  "The  Lord 
loveth  a  cheerful  giver,"  the  word  "cheerful" 
should  be  "hilarious."  It  was  so  rendered  that 
day  at  McLemore. 

There  is  a  dear  woman  in  Memphis  who 
raises  canary  birds  for  sale  to  make  her  church 
and  mission  money.  She  names  them  for  mis- 
sionaries, and  when  a  purchaser  comes,  they 
hear  all  about  the  missionary's  work.  I  was 
invited  out  to  her  home  with  six  other  ladies  to 
eat  strawberry  short  cake  and  see  the  birds.  She 
had  just  named  a  young  pair,  "Emory  and 
Myrta."  About  Christmas  time  she  sent  me  ten 
dollars,  the  highest  price  she  had  ever  gotten 
for  a  single  bird,  and  this  money  was  to  be  sent 
to  Emory  Ross  for  his  Christmas  gift.  I  have 
told  this  story  twice,  with  embellishments,  once 
to  a  Sunday  School  in  Worcester,  Massachusetts, 
and  again  in  Fayetteville,  Arkansas,  and  it  took 
well  with  the  boys  and  girls  in  both  places.  One 
boy  said,  "Gee,  a  feller  could  raise  lots  of  mis- 
sionary money  with  Belgian  hares."  So  there 
may  be  a  "Bunny  Fund"  started  by  this  time. 

I  saw  what  they  called  a  "Bunny  Hug"  one 
time  on  a  boat  on  the  Mississippi  River.  E.  E. 
Elliott  and  L.  W.  McCreary  and  their  families, 
saw  it,  too.  I  read  where  the  Aldermen  of  New 
Orleans  had  pronounced  against  it,  and  when 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

New  Orleans  condemns  a  thing,  it  must  be  bad. 
Some  one  recently  said,  "If  the  dance  craze  keeps 
up  as  it  is  going,  the  next  generation  won't 
recognize  'Home  Sweet  Home'  unless  it  is 
jazzed." 

A  great  statesman  has  said,  "Tell  me  what 
your  young  people  are  thinking  about,  and  I  will 
tell  you  what  your  country  will  be  in  twenty-five 
years  from  now." 

I  have  just  been  reading  Herman  Hage- 
dorn's  book,  "You  Are  the  Hope  of  the  World." 
"To  you  who  carry  the  unblunted  swords  of  ten 
to  seventeen,  you  are  the  ones  who  carry  the 
hope  of  the  world.  Not  to  die  for  the  world, 
to  live  for  it,  to  think  for  it,  to  work  for  it, 
to  keep  sharp  and  unstained  by  rust  the  sword 
of  the  spirit."  It  is  an  appeal  to  the  boys  and 
girls  of  America.  Everyone  of  their  hearts  will 
thrill  in  its  perusal,  and  it  would  be  "good  medi- 
cine" for  the  parents,  too.  Another  book  that  is 
most  helpful  is  Arthur  Conwell's  "Manhood's 
Morning."  Conwell  tells  that  there  are  boys 
enough  in  the  United  States  to  go  into  the  forests 
and  cut  the  trees  and  make  the  ties;  go  into  the 
mines  and  dig  the  ore  and  smelt  it,  and  build  a 
railroad  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco  be- 
tween the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun.  What 
a  tremendous  power  for  good  or  ill!  The  hope  of 
the  world,  they  are,  sure  enough,  our  greatest 

100 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

asset.  If  there  is  anything  I  love  better  than  a 
boy,  it  is  some  more  boys.  1  could  write  a  whole 
book  on  "Boys  I  Have  Known."  I  heard  a  mother 
of  three  sons  say,  "I  just  feel  like  I  was  wasting 
time  when  I  read.  I  would  rather  crochet,  and 
have  something  to  show  for  my  time." 

I  was  in  a  home  where  there  was  a  son  of 
fifteen  years;  handsome  as  ever  was  made.  At 
the  dinner  table  the  mother,  who  was  President 
of  the  Woman's  Missionary  Society,  regaled  us 
with  things  about  the  preacher.  "He  seems  so 
worldly;  rather  be  rollicking  around  with  the 
boys  of  the  town  than  tending  to  his  duties; 
taking  them  on  long  hikes  after  school,  when 
they  had  better  be  doing  something  useful.  I 
just  don't  think  he  was  ever  cut  out  for  a 
preacher;  he  doesn't  seem  at  all  spiritual."  Up 
spoke  the  boy  champion,  "You  bet  all  the  boys 
in  town  like  him.  He's  a  sport.  He  is  the  kind 
of  a  guy  that  gets  the  boys  all  right."  Then  the 
father  reprimanded  the  boy  sharply  for  contra- 
dicting his  mother.  I  felt  sick,  like  I  had  been 
in  a  dissecting  room.  She  was  to  lead  the 
devotions  that  afternoon  at  the  convention. 
"The  Children's  Work"  was  the  subject.  She 
asked  me  to  give  her  a  scripture  that  would  be 
suitable.  I  told  her  I  thought,  "Do  not  sin 
against  the  child"  would  be  timely  and  appro- 
priate. I  don't  think  she  "caught  on." 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

I  have  had  some  happy  experiences  with  the 
Boy  Scouts.  In  Waycross,  Georgia,  two  of  them 
were  so  helpful  to  me  that  I  wrote  them  up  in 
their  town  paper.  This  is  what  one  of  the 
youngsters  asked  me:  "If  Arkansaw  Virginia, 
how  far  can  Tennessee?"  Of  course  I  didn't 
know.  "Waycross,  Georgia,"  was  the  answer.  I 
have  met  with  the  boy  scouts  in  many  different 
towns.  I  love  to  hear  them  take  their  scout 
oath. 

"On  my  honor  I  will  do  my  best, 

I.    To  do  my  duty  to  God  and  my  country 
and  to  obey  the  scout  law; 

II.    To  help  other  people  at  all  times; 

III.  To  keep  myself  physically  strong, 
mentally  awake,  and  morally  straight." 

And  then  to  hear  them  say,  "I  will  be  true;  I  will 
be  clean;  I  will  be  loyal."  One  troop  gave  a  yell 
that  pleased  me.  "Whawho!  Whayet!  Nasty, 
dirty  cigarette!"  I  gave  them  the  definition  I 
had  read  of  a  cigarette,  "A  roll  of  paper  and 
poison  with  fire  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the 
other."  It  means  much  that  390,000  boys  in  the 
United  States  are  living  under  such  standards  as 
their  oath  implies.  I  am  glad  that  thousands  of 
men  find  joy  in  serving  as  scout  masters.  They 
are  stamping  their  personality  upon  those  im- 
pressionable boys  as  truly  as  the  Philadelphia 

102 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

mint  puts  the  symbol  of  the  United  States  upon 
our  golden  coins. 

A  mother  asked  me  if  I  would  compel  a  boy 
to  go  to  church.  I  said,  "No,  I  would  constrain  him. 
I  would  so  love  the  church  myself,  and  uphold  it 
and  talk  of  it,  and  tell  of  its  glorious  triumph 
through  all  the  ages;  I'd  tell  him  that  the  church 
was  the  body  of  Christ,  and  if  we  did  anything  to 
hurt  the  church,  it  would  hurt  Christ  Himself; 
I'd  so  enthuse  the  child's  heart  that  his  feet 
would  be  swift  and  his  blood  would  tingle  when 
he  would  hear  the  church  bell  ring."  A  boy 
would  not  be  dead  in  love  with  the  church  if  his 
Christian  father  sat  at  home  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing and  read  the  paper,  and  his  Christian  mother 
had  a  violent  headache  every  seventh  day  of  the 
week.  I  have  known  women  who  claim  that 
they  are  so  nervous  that  they  couldn't  sit  an 
hour  and  a  half  in  church,  who  go  to  a  movie 
and  sit  three  hours  without  a  collapse.  Now, 
this  "nerve  business"  is  terribly  overworked. 
When  I  meet  a  woman,  I  hate  to  have  her  take 
up  all  the  blessed,  God-given  time  talking  about 
her  nerves.  The  Psychologist  tells  us  that  every 
thought  leaves  a  groove  on  the  brain,  and  every 
time  we  repeat  a  thought,  that  the  groove  grows 
deeper.  I  should  think  that  some  brains  would 
be  worn  through. 

I  visit  a  most  interesting  woman,  who  is  in 
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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

the  eighties.  She  talks  about  the  W.  C.  T.  U. 
work  in  her  own  town,  about  contests  in  the 
public  schools,  with  essays  on  Scientific  Temper- 
ance. She  talks  about  suffrage,  and  quotes  from 
Carry  Chapman  Catt.  She  tells  of  the  marvelous 
triumphs  on  the  mission  fields.  She  tells  of  the 
rat  killing  campaign  along  the  Mississippi  River 
to  keep  off  the  bubonic  plague.  She  discourses 
about  the  "Child  Welfare  League."  She  talks  of 
King  Albert  and  Lloyd  George;  about  the  Chau- 
tauqua  program.  She  is  a  walking  encyclopedia, 
and  the  whole  town  knows  it.  She  is  an  author- 
ity; everybody  consults  her.  If  she  has  any 
"Rheumatiz,"  she  never  talks  about  it.  I  wonder 
if  it  does  any  good  to  talk  about  our  aches  and 
pains? 

A  bright,  cheery  woman,  went  to  a  meeting 
of  an  aid  society.  The  women  told  about  their 
afflictions.  One  told  of  her  liver,  and  another  of 
her  heart;  still  another  of  her  spleen;  the  eyes 
and  ears  came  in  for  some  attention;  the  corns 
and  bunions,  the  goiters  and  catarrh,  high  blood 
pressure,  eczema,  tonsils  and  adenoids.  At  the 
close  of  the  meeting,  one  of  the  members  asked 
the  visitor  if  she  had  enjoyed  the  afternoon.  "O 
yes,"  she  said,  "I  thought,  though,  that  I  was 
coming  to  an  Aid  Society  Meeting,  but  I'd  call 
this  an  'Organ  Recital'." 

"Joy  is  the  sunshine  of  the  soul,  and  laughter 
104 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

the  greatest  antiseptic  and  mental  purifier  on 
earth,"  and  every  doctor  knows  it,  too.  "A  laugh 
is  worth  a  hundred  groans  in  any  market,"  says 
Charles  Lamb.  "God  smiled  when  He  put  humor 
into  the  human  disposition  and  said,  'That  is 
good.'  " — Beecher.  Once  I  made  a  whole  family 
laugh.  I  did  it  on  purpose;  they  needed  it.  A 
new  baby  greets  the  world  with  a  cry,  the  uni- 
versal volapuk.  After  awhile  it  smiles.  That 
makes  everybody  laugh.  It's  easier  to  cry  than 
to  laugh.  We  never  cry  unless  we  feel  like  it, 
but  I  know  people  who  laugh  when  their  hearts 
are  full  of  tears.  Harry  Lauder  rises  from  his 
son's  grave  out  there  in  France  and  goes  to  sing 
to  12,000  boys.  His  friend  remonstrates,  "Harry, 
you  can't  sing."  "Oh,  yes  I  can,  those  boys  are 
waiting  and  my  boy  is  watching.  I'll  go  and 
sing  out  of  the  break  of  my  heart." 

One  can  sing  if  her  son  falls  on  a  field  of 
honor,  but  I  know  a  dear  mother  whose  son  was 
killed,  shot  down  in  a  bawdy  house.  She  was 
killed,  too.  O,  she  will  walk  around  a  few  years 
longer,  ministering  to  the  rest  of  her  family,  but 
some  day  a  disease  will  fasten  upon  her  and  she 
will  succumb.  Doctors  will  say,  "She  had  no 
vitality  to  resist  the  attack."  No,  there  was  no 
resistance,  she  was  stabbed,  mortally  wounded, 
and  her  heart's  blood  had  oozed  away.  It's  a 
dastardly  thing  for  a  boy  to  kill  his  mother. 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

I  know  a  man  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  who 
was  vigorous,  strong  and  alert  three  years  ago. 
I  met  him  again,  recently.  His  hair  is  white,  he 
has  sad  lines  on  his  face,  his  step  is  slow  and 
lacks  elasticity,  he  has  aged.  I  marveled  at  the 
change  in  him.  His  only  son,  by  whom  his 
honored  family  name  was  to  have  been  per- 
petuated, had  gone  wrong,  woefully  wrong,  and 
was  languishing  behind  prison  bars. 

"My  son!  My  son!  Would  to  God  I  had 
died  for  thee."  David's  lament  over  Absolam  is 
being  reiterated  in  the  hearts  of  men  today,  and 
there  are  mothers  who  will  have  to  take  up 
Judah's  plaint  and  say,  "How  can  I  go  up  to  the 
Father,  and  the  lad  be  not  with  me?" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I  have  visited  twenty  of  our  own  church  col- 
leges, and  many  others.  I  was  in  one  school 
where  they  had  twenty-five  mission  study 
classes,  and  the  students  had  given  $10,000  to- 
ward a  hospital  in  China.  There  are  forty-seven 
thousand  college  students  in  mission  study 
classes  in  the  United  States.  The  study  of  mis- 
sions makes  for  intelligent  Christianity  as  noth- 
ing else  does,  except  the  study  of  the  Bible. 
Mission  study  today  is  the  study  of  civilization. 
To  be  ignorant  of  missions  is  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  great  life  currents  of  progress.  An  editor  of 
the  Outlook,  recently  home  from  the  East,  says, 
"The  missionary  movement  is  today  the  greatest 
unifying  force  at  work  among  men."  The  mis- 
sionary is  talked  of  in  the  newspapers;  he  is 
acknowledged  by  science ;  he  enters  into  the  cal- 
culations of  statesmen;  he  is  recognized  as  a 
permanent  factor  in  the  re-making  of  the  world. 
Charles  Darwin  said,  "The  lesson  of  the  mission- 
ary is  like  an  enchanter's  wand."  A  war  corres- 
pondent of  a  Chicago  paper  goes  into  Tibet  to 
help  rescue  our  intrepid  Dr.  Shelton,  and  to  tell 
the  world  of  his  capture  and  release.  Fred 
Smith's  trip  cost  the  Chicago  Tribune  $3,000. 
His  cables  were  copied  by  a  score  of  leading 

107 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

papers,  and  hundreds  of  small  ones.  Dr.  Osgood 
writes  that  because  of  Mr.  Fred  Smith's  trip  and 
his  writing,  more  bankers  are  going  to  put 
money  into  Chinese  securities ;  more  Consuls  are 
going  to  be  scattered  over  China;  more  steam- 
ships are  going  to  cross  the  Pacific;  more  hos- 
pitals are  going  to  be  built;  more  schools  opened, 
and  more  churches  erected.  Yes,  newspapers, 
magazines,  books,  leaflets  and  calendars  are  pub- 
lishing the  good  news  of  the  oncoming  Kingdom 
of  our  Lord  and  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ.  Great 
public  libraries  are  devoting  space  for  mission- 
ary literature  with  separate  catalogs,  so  great  is 
the  demand.  Any  church,  that  is  in  fact  as  well 
as  profession,  seeking  first  the  Kingdom  of  God 
will  demand  and  will  have  fresh  and  full  tidings 
of  that  Kingdom  throughout  the  earth. 

I  went  East  and  was  in  Boston  a  few  weeks. 
I  was  shown  many  interesting  places,  Cambridge 
and  Harvard,  Phillips  Brooks'  monument  and 
church.  I  thought  of  how  a  newspaper  man  said, 
"It  was  a  rainy,  dreary  Monday  morning,  but 
Dr.  Phillips  Brooks  came  walking  down  the 
street  and  everything  was  bright."  I  saw  the 
Bunker  Hill  monument,  I  visited  the  Mother 
church,  a  magnificent  building.  Was  on  the 
bridge  where  Longfellow  stood  at  midnight.  I 
stood  by  the  grave  of  this  beloved  poet.  A 
woman  pointed  out  to  me  the  graves  of  two  of 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Boston's  most  exclusive,  aristocratic  families, 
the  Cabots  and  the  Lodges.  She  said  it  was  told 
of  them  that  the  Cabots  only  spoke  to  the  Lodges 
and  that  the  Lodges  only  spoke  to  God.  But  the 
sight  that  gave  me  the  thrills  was  over  at  the 
Aerial  School,  where  I  saw  5,000  boys,  all  dressed 
in  white,  march  over  to  the  Stadium,  the  light  of 
the  morning  in  their  faces  and  their  hearts  as 
strong  as  steel.  I  visited  all  our  churches  in 
Vermont,  only  two,  ten  miles  apart.  The  love- 
liest valley  towns  nestled  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  Green  Mountains;  the  most  gracious  people, 
and  pure  maple  syrup  three  times  a  day. 

Was  in  Danbury,  Connecticut,  and  the  sub- 
urb, Bethel,  which  is  the  birth  place  of  P.  T. 
Barnum.  He  gave  a  beautiful  fountain  to  the 
town.  One  evening  I  rode  out  with  Mr.  Barnum 
and  his  family,  next  evening  with  Mr.  Bailey,  so 
I  can  truthfully  say  I  have  traveled  with  "Barn- 
um and  Bailey." 

Worcester,  Massachusetts,  has  a  great 
church  and  great  people.  I  have  enjoyed  their 
fellowship  several  times. 

I  went  up  into  the  Maritime  provinces. 
Visited  the  churches  in  Nova  Scotia,  New  Bruns- 
wick, and  Prince  Edward  Island.  Never  have  I 
seen  such  entrancing  beauty  of  sea  and  land. 
Met  the  most  loyal  people,  English  and  Scotch. 
Everything  was  named  for  Royalty.  Queen's 

109 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Gardens,  King's  Parks,  Victoria  Hotel,  Windsor 
Inn,  Prince  of  Wales  College,  Royal  icehouses, 
and  Royal  Baking  Powder.  I  crossed  the 
Northumberland  Strait  over  into  Prince 
Edward  Island,  one  beautiful  moonlight  night.  I 
remembered  that  this  water  was  where  Brother 
A.  McLean  was  baptized.  What  that  hour  of  life 
dedication  has  meant  to  the  world!  The  original 
Indian  name  of  the  Island  was  "Abegweit," 
"Cradled  on  the  Waves."  The  Island  was  ceded 
by  the  British  to  the  French  in  1764.  It  was 
given  its  present  name  for  Edward,  Duke  of 
Kent,  Queen  Victoria's  father.  It  is  a  gem  of 
beauty.  I  had  my  headquarters  for  a  month  at 
Summerside,  in  the  hospitable  home  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Maynard  Schurman.  I  was  in  Charlotte 
Town,  the  capital,  a  quaint  old  city.  This  was 
the  home  of  Miss  Montgomery,  the  author  of 
"Ann  of  Green  Gables,"  but  she  is  not  living 
there  now.  A  friend,  Miss  Agnes  Williams,  told 
me  much  of  her.  Her  books  have  had  a  tremen- 
dous sale,  and  Miss  Montgomery  said  she  thought 
every  red-headed  girl  in  America  wrote  to  her 
after  reading  "Ann."  Was  in  many  country 
homes  and  enjoyed  the  fruit,  especially  the 
strawberries.  The  Island  is  noted  for  its  many 
fine  horses.  The  automobile  was  just  beginning  to 
put  in  its  appearance,  to  the  great  discomfort  of 
the  women  folk,  who  drive  their  own  teams. 

110 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

I  went  to  see  the  silver  fox  farms.  The  fox 
business  is  one  of  the  great  industries  of  the 
Island.  We  drove  through  "Beaver  Street."  The 
gentleman  told  me  it  should  have  been  called 
"Fox  Street,"  for  it  was  built  with  Fox  money. 

I  am  afraid  to  tell  about  the  big  fish  I  saw. 
My  readers  would  say,  "That  is  another  fish 
story." 

In  Nova  Scotia  I  was  shown  a  sugar  camp 
where,  in  the  spring,  there  were  seven  tons  of 
sugar  brick  made. 

I  saw  wonderful  apple  orchards.  I  wonder 
why  people  who  pretend  to  go  North  don't  go  up 
on  the  St.  John  River  in  New  Brunswick. 

"Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green," 

may  equal  it,  but  I  don't  see  how  they  could  sur- 
pass it. 

I  only  had  a  glimpse  of  Evangellne's  land. 
There  is  the  village  of  Grand  Pre,  the  same  old 
willows  and  the  well  with  the  sweep;  the  old 
church  with  its  high  sounding  board;  Gabriel's 
blacksmith  shop.  The  villagers  keep  a  white 
heifer  on  the  green  with  a  blue  ribbon  around  its 
neck  to  make  the  whole  setting  of  the  famous 
poem  real. 

I  visited  Halifax,  soon  after  the  disaster, 
with  its  terrible  devastation  and  loss  of  life.  I 

ill 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

was  in  our  own  church  when  the  list  of  lives  lost 
was  read.  Nineteen  of  our  little  group  were 
taken.  I  heard  some  heart-rending  stories  of  the 
tragedy.  I  have  never  seen  more  beautiful 
parks  than  in  Halifax.  I  had  my  home  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lorenza  Miles,  where  I  was  made  very 
welcome. 

We  had  but  just  entered  into  the  world  war, 
and  I  had  not  sensed  what  it  meant,  until  I  had 
crossed  the  Canadian  line.  In  nearly  every 
home  there  was  a  vacant  chair,  a  mute  symbol 
of  the  sacrifice  that  Canada  was  making  for 
world  democracy.  I  was  in  the  home  of  a 
widowed  mother,  whose  only  two  sons  were  in 
France.  One  morning  there  came  a  cablegram, 
"Ira  Stewart  killed  in  battle."  Two  hours  later, 
another  message,  "Jack  Stewart  wounded."  I 
was  in  the  home  a  month  later.  The  girls  of  the 
church  had  had  Ira's  picture  enlarged  and  hung 
in  the  mother's  room.  Mrs.  Stewart  stood  be- 
fore that  picture  with  a  light  in  her  eye  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land,  and  she  spoke  more  to 
herself  than  to  me,  "He  was  so  young,  only 
seventeen,  so  bright,  so  good,  my  boy,"  then 
turning  to  me,  "I  am  so  proud,  Mother  Ross,  that 
Ira  died  for  humanity."  That  seemed  to  be  the 
spirit  of  the  Canadian  women. 

An  American  soldier  wrote  home,  "If  any- 
thing happens  to  me,  Mother,  don't  grieve  about 

112 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

'  i 

it  and  mourn.  Just  count  it  an  investment,  like 
buying  a  Liberty  bond."  These  bereft  fathers 
and  mothers  have  made  an  investment  of  their 
own  flesh  and  blood,  that  the  world  may  be 
made  free. 

I  was  invited  to  a  Presbyterian  home  in 
Charlottetown  for  Sunday  evening  tea.  The 
hostess  told  me  of  her  uncle,  Dr.  James  T. 
Hughes,  of  Toronto,  whose  only  son  was  killed 
in  France.  Dr.  Hughes  had  written  a  poem  a 
few  weeks  before  his  boy's  death.  She  gave  it  to 
me.  It  expresses  just  the  way  I  feel  about  my 
son,  so  I  will  commit  it  to  this  book  that  other 
parents  may  read  it. 

"God  gave  my  son  in  trust  to  me, 
Christ  died  for  him  and  he  should  be 
A  man  for  Christ.    He  is  his  own 
And  God's  and  man's;  not  mine  alone. 
He  was  not  mine  to  give;  he  gave 
Himself  that  he  might  help  to  save 
All  that  Christians  should  revere, 
All  that  enlightened  men  hold  dear. 
What  if  he  should  not  come?  you  say, 
Ah  well,  my  sky  would  be  more  gray 
But  through  the  clouds  the  sun  would  shine 
And  vital  memories  be  mine. 
God's  test  of  manhood  is,  I  know — 
Not,  will  he  come?  but,  did  he  go?'" 
113 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

I  was  in  Bridgewater,  Nova  Scotia,  where  I 
had  been  told  a  brother  of  our  Brother  McLean 
lived,  but  the  word  had  just  reached  them  of  the 
death  of  their  son  in  France,  a  brilliant  young 
lawyer.  I  did  not  try  to  see  them,  but  just  prayed 
for  their  stricken  hearts. 

We  were  in  a  convention  at  Milton,  Nova 
Scotia,  an  all-day  Sunday  meeting.  The  glorious 
sunshine  flooded  the  earth.  A  sparkling  stream 
of  cool  water  near  the  church  refreshed  us;  it 
was  a  blessed  Lord's  day.  A  man  and  wife  from 
a  distance  had  come  in  their  automobile.  He 
was  especially  helpful  in  the  sessions  of  the  con- 
vention. Then,  at  two  o'clock,  a  cablegram,  like 
a  deadly  lightning  flash,  was  handed  them  that 
their  first  born  was  killed  in  battle.  The  day  was 
darkened  for  all  of  us,  sorrow  settled  upon  us 
like  a  pall  of  gloom.  "Bleeding"  and  "Blessing" 
come  from  the  same  Anglo-Saxon  root  word. 
Thousands  of  homes  have  given  up  their  life's 
blood  out  yonder  in  "No  Man's  Land."  John 
Keats,  in  one  of  his  poems,  tells  us  about  the 
Master  walking  in  the  garden  and,  seeing  the 
ground  all  covered  with  fallen  rose  leaves,  says, 
"The  roses  will  be  redder  and  sweeter  next  year 
because  these  have  bled  for  them." 

I  visited  a  Canadian  hospital,  where  there 
were  twelve  hundred  soldiers,  maimed,  and 
bruised,  and  broken.  I  saw  a  man  without  eyes 

114 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

and  without  arms.  I  never  so  realized  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Atonement  as  I  did  when  I  looked  at 
that  boy  and  thought  of  how  he  would  grope  in 
darkness  all  the  years  of  his  life  for  my  sake,  for 
your  sake.  Talk  about  giving  these  men  a 
"Bonus?"  Let's  call  it  back  pay.  Were  we  to 
empty  the  United  States  Treasury  of  its  bound- 
less, incomprehensible  store,  and  lay  it  at  the 
feet  of  these  heroes,  we  would  still  be  indebted 
to  them. 

I  found  "a  wayside  sacrament"  in  a  little 
dovecote  of  a  home  by  the  sea  up  in  Nova  Scotia, 
where  two  rare  spirits  lived,  sisters,  the  Misses 
Freeman.  I  must  have  stressed  the  needs  of  the 
colored  people  of  our  Southland,  for  within  six 
months  they  were  both  enrolled  among  the 
teachers  of  Spelman  Seminary,  Atlanta,  Georgia, 
where  I  have  met  them  twice  since. 

An  elderly  woman  in  Prince  Edward  Island 
asked  me  if  I  ever  knew  "Sweet  Anna  Mc- 
Donald." I  did  not  know  her  by  that  name,  but 
when  she  told  me  she  was  the  wife  of  H.  T. 
Morrison,  my  memory  flew  back  to  the  time 
when  Brother  Morrison  came  to  be  our  pastor 
at  Winchester,  Indiana.  "Sweet  Anna  McDonald" 
just  expresses  the  Mrs.  Morrison  whom  every- 
body loved.  She  would  sometimes  be  lonely,  and 
longing  for  her  Island  home.  I  would  often  go 

115 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

with  my  horse  and  carriage  and  take  her  and 
her  baby  boys,  Charles  and  Hugh,  out  riding. 

I  didn't  know  the  Christian  church  was  so 
indebted  to  Canada  until  I  was  told  of  her  illus- 
trious men  and  women  who  had  crossed  the  line 
to  live  and  work  with  us.  A.  McLean,  Dr.  Mack- 
lin,  Petrus  Rijnhart  and  Dr.  Susie,  President 
and  Mrs.  Paul,  Professor  Lumley,  the  Morrisons, 
the  Simpsons  and  McDougals,  the  Riochs  and 
Maddens,  the  three  Sinclair  boys,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Loren  Sanford,  George  Campbell,  the  Linklet- 
ters,  May  Louise  Cory,  and  others  whose  names 
I  do  not  recall.  How  enriched  the  church  has 
been  by  the  infusion  of  the  blood  of  these  strong 
Canadians! 

The  Canadianb  sing  "God  Save  the  King"  in 
every  service.  I  sang  heartily  and  once  the 
chorister,  noticing,  no  doubt,  what  a  contribution 
I  was  making,  said,  "Now  let's  sing  'America'  for 
Mother  Ross,"  which  they  gladly  did.  Oh,  the 
fellowship  was  so  delightful,  and  I  just  pray  that 
I  may  go  again  to  the  Provinces. 

I  came  back  to  Boston  and  waited  two  weeks 
for  the  New  England  convention.  Was  in  the 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loren  Sanford,  pastor  of 
the  Everett  church.  Their  sixteen  year  old  son, 
Wallace,- was  a  congenial  and  interesting  com- 
panion for  me.  I  am  often  entertained  in  homes 
where  there  are  no  children,  and  I  always  try  to 

116 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

make  the  best  of  it.  1  feel  so  sorry  for  the  child- 
less couple,  but  if  you  want  to  show  me  a  real 
good  time,  place  me  where  there  is  a  houseful  of 
youngsters.  In  a  St.  Louis  home  there  were  five 
ranging  from  four  to  sixteen  years.  We  older 
ones  were  telling  stories,  rhymes  and  conun- 
drums, when  the  little  boy  piped  up  and  said, 
"Mother  Ross,  I  know  a  funny  story,  too."  "Tell 
it,  child,"  said  I. 

"The  honey  bee  gets  honey 
With  a  funny  little  buzz, 

But  there's  nothing  very  funny 
About  the  other  thing  he  does." 

When  I  learn  a  good  thing,  I  try  to  pass  it  on.  I'd 
like  to  see  all  of  the  boys  and  girls  that  I  have 
taught  this  verse,  hold  up  their  hands. 

I  try  to  avoid  all  controversial  subjects.  I 
don't  know  much  about  theological  questions. 
One  day  a  rather  serious,  sober  man  asked  me 
a  corker,  "Sister  Ross,  do  you  spell  'Disciple' 
with  a  big  'D'  or  a  little  'd'?"  I  was  scared,  my 
heart  was  in  my  throat,  but  a  six  year  old  boy, 
God  bless  him,  who  was  never  serious  or  sober, 
yelled  to  me  to  come  out  and  see  a  toad  he  had 
in  a  glass  jar.  That  boy  taught  me  more  natural 
history,  Toadology,  in  the  next  five  minutes  than 
I  had  ever  known.  I  told  him  I  knew  a  verse 
about  a  toad.  "Tell  It,"  he  said. 

117 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"Ain't  a  toad  a  tunny  ting? 

Ain't  dot  no  tail  atall, 

When  it  tannen  up  look  like  it  titten  down 

When  titten  down  look  like  it  tannen  up. 

Ain't  a  toad  a  tunny  ting?" 

I  had  to  say  it  over  and  over  till  the  boy  learned 
it.  Charles  Dickens  said,  "You  make  a  child 
happy  today,  and  you  make  him  happy  twenty- 
five  years  from  now  by  the  memory  of  it."  So, 
if  I  made  that  boy  glad,  I  consider  that  of  vastly 
more  importance  and  farther  reaching  in  its  in- 
fluence, than  if  I  had  told  that  man  which  way  I 
spelled  "disciple." 

I  was  punished  in  school  once  and  made  to 
write  five  hundred  times,  "Many  men  of  many 
minds."  In  life's  school  I've  learned  the  truth  of 
this  statement.  We  quote  Scripture  to  bolster  up 
our  convictions.  An  Elder  would  not  come  to 
hear  me  because  Paul  had  said,  "Let  your  women 
keep  silent  in  the  churches."  I  never  deported 
myself  as  did  those  Corinthian  women.  If  Paul 
were  here  today  he  would  be  glad  to  "help  these 
women"  who  labor  in  the  Gospel.  An  old  man 
left  the  house  once  when  I  walked  up  into  the 
pulpit  with  the  minister.  He  had  never  seen  a 
woman  stand  in  that  "sacred  place."  Another 
saint  asked  me  if  I  had  been-  ordained.  A 
preacher  standing  by,  said,  "Mother  Rose  haa 

118 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

been  fore-ordained."  I  don't  know  much  about 
Heresy  and  Orthodoxy.  I  just  know  that  I  love 
my  Lord  and  that  I  have  passed  from  death  unto 
life  because  I  love  the  brethren.  "I  am  deter- 
mined to  know  nothing  among  you  save  Jesus 
Christ  and  Him  crucified."  He  is  my  pole-star 
and  the  Bible  is  my  manual  of  conduct.  I  pray 
for  the  church  that  not  one  of  us  may  "grieve  the 
Holy  Spirit  of  God,  whereby  ye  are  sealed  unto 
the  day  of  redemption.  Let  all  bitterness  and 
wrath,  and  anger,  and  clamour,  and  evil  speak- 
ing, be  put  away  from  you,  with  all  malice;  and 
be  ye  kind  one  to  another,  tender  hearted,  for- 
giving one  another,  even  as  God  for  Christ's 
sake  hath  forgiven  you." 

I  was  in  a  town  once  where  the  church  was 
torn  and  rent  by  a  quarrel,  a  sight  to  make 
angels  weep.  I  had  just  heard  of  an  unfailing 
remedy  for  such  a  dreadful  malady.  I  was  glad 
to  give  it  to  them,  "Every  one  connected  with  the 
affair  just  close  their  mouths  and  keep  their  lips 
pressed  close  together." 

I  was  in  conversation  with  a  man  on  a  train. 
He  criticized  the  Inter-Church  World  Movement 
on  account  of  its  financial  aim;  said  it  was  just 
preposterous,  absurd,  out  of  the  question;  that 
it  was  making  ministers  dissatisfied  with  their 
salaries;  the  church  talked  money  too  much.  I 
reminded  him  that  I  had  Just  read  that  the 

119 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

United  States  had  spent  $800,000,000  for  cigar- 
ettes; $500,000,000  for  jewelry;  $175,000,000  for 
perfume  this  last  year.  Charlie  Chaplin  has  a 
salary  of  $1,000,000,  and  Bud  Fisher,  the  "Mutt 
and  Jeff"  cartoonist,  is  paid  $250,000  for  making 
one  picture  a  day,  just  a  few  minutes'  work.  I 
have  not  heard  any  Christian  say  this  was  pre- 
posterous, absurd,  out  of  the  question.  We  pay 
for  what  we  like.  Our  Lord  spoke  often  of 
money.  Sixteen  of  his  thirty-eight  parables  are 
on  this  theme.  The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the 
fulness  thereof,  but  some  are  attempting  desper- 
ately to  transfer  the  title.  A  great  Christian 
statesman  has  said,  "The  money  that  belongs  by 
every  right  to  God,  but  is  kept  back  from  Him  by 
His  people,  is  probably  the  greatest  hindrance  to 
vital  spirituality  that  there  is  in  the  world  to- 
day." W.  W.  Pinson  says,  "we  have  been  singing, 
'Like  a  mighty  army  moves  the  church  of  God.' 
Can  we  sing  it  now?  We  have  seen  how  a  great 
army  moves.  It  levies  its  billions  of  dollars  and 
gets  them.  It  enters  our  kitchens  and  tells  us  what 
we  may  eat.  It  builds  ships,  requisitions  fac- 
tories, builds  cities  overnight,  and  takes  over 
whole  railroad  systems.  It  demands  our  best. 
Mothers  kiss  their  boys  goodbye  and  send  them 
to  face  cannon.  Men  go  singing  by  the  million 
to  the  'red  rampart's  slippery  edge.'  If  we  dare 

120 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

sing  like  that,  we  must  set  an  undreamed  of 
standard  of  loyalty  to  the  Prince  of  Peace.  We 
have  not  been  marching;  we  have  been  marking 
time." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I  read  an  article  in  a  recent  magazine,  "Los- 
ing My  Trunk,"  which,  struck  a  sympathetic 
chord  in  my  heart,  for  I  had  just  been  "losing  my 
suitcase."  I  was  in  an  all-day  meeting  in 
Atlanta,  Georgia.  At  four  o'clock  two  friends 
urged  me  to  go  over  to  Capitol  City  Club,  where 
a  Silver  Tea  was  being  given  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Children's  Home.  I  was  loathe  to  leave  my 
suitcase  in  the  auto.  "It  was  borne  in  upon  me," 
i*s  my  grandmother  used  to  say,  that  it  was  not  a 
safe  thing  to  do.  But  those  two  Atlanta  women 
had  such  faith  in  the  inhabitants  of  their  city 
that  they  insisted  that  the  bag  would  be  perfectly 
safe.  We  went  into  the  club  room  and  I  was 
called  on,  unexpectedly,  to  make  a  few  remarks. 
I  skirmished  around  through  my  tired,  over- 
worked and  rather  anxious  brain  for  something 
to  say,  while  I  was  rising  and  going  to  the  front. 
It  was  at  the  time  when  the  slang  "I  should 
worry"  was  at  the  height  of  its  usage,  and  I  re- 
membered a  classic  that  Ben  Perrall,  a  popular 
pastor  in  Buffalo,  New  York,  had  taught  me. 

"I've  joined  the  new  'Don't  Worry  Club' 

And  now  I  hold  my  breath. 
I  am  so  worried  for  fear  I'll  worry 

That  I'm  worried  nearly  to  death." 
122 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

1  think  I  discoursed  a  while  on  the  subject  of 
"Worry."  I  must  have  told  them  that  worry  was 
a  canker  to  the  soul;  that  John  Wesley  said  he 
would  as  soon  curse  as  worry,  and  I  felt  the  same 
way.  As  I  look  back  to  that  afternoon,  I  know 
those  Atlanta  women  must  have  wondered  what 
my  talk  had  to  do  with  a  Silver  Tea  for  an 
orphanage.  My  whole  speech  I  know  was  out  of 
the  fullness  of  my  heart,  for  I  was  worried  nearly 
to  death  about  that  suitcase.  Sure  enough,  when 
we  went  out  into  the  street,  we  found  the  auto, 
but  the  suitcase  was  gone.  I  was  thankful  that 
the  car  was  left,  for  in  some  cities  I  have  heard 
of  the  whole  auto  being  taken.  The  way  those 
women  summoned  the  police,  put  notices  in  the 
papers,  and  sent  out  spies,  made  me  think  that 
they  must  belong  to  Atlanta's  detective  agency. 
Their  good  husbands  were  alert,  too.  I  remem- 
ber having  such  a  detached  feeling  as  I  faced  the 
clothes-wearing  world  with  just  one  dress!  As  I 
reviewed  in  my  mind  the  contents  of  that  bag, 
it  just  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  left  nothing  at 
home.  All  the  dainty  Christmas  gifts  that  had 
been  sent  to  me,  handkerchiefs,  laces,  boudoir 
caps,  photographs,  silk  bags,  dresses,  petticoats, 
shoes,  slippers,  all  gone.  I  wrote  cards  to  Mem- 
phis, Keokuk,  Indianapolis,  and  other  towns,  for 
I  wanted  to  share  this  catastrophe  with  sympa- 
thetic friends.  I  never  before  felt  so  prominent 

123 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

about  earthly  possessions.  I  wrote  and  felt  the 
poignant  truth  of  this  kindergarten  verse: 

"Poor  little  fly  on  the  wall, 
Ain't  you  got  no  clothes  at  all?" 

The  one  thing  that  can  never  be  replaced  is  my 
first  and  only  written  speech,  and  it  was  on 
"Prayer."  Here's  hoping  that  it  may  find  lodg- 
ment in  some  good  and  honest  heart!  The  next 
day  I  took  a  train  out  of  Atlanta,  and  that  is  all  I 
did  take.  A  feeling  of  equanimity  of  soul  came 
over  me,  almost  exhilaration.  I  was  so  unencum- 
bered, so  free.  No  packing  nor  repacking,  no 
checking  nor  rechecking,  just  a  little  bag  with 
comb,  brush  and  powder  puff.  I  felt  as  if  I  would 
like  to  travel  so  forever.  I  had  so  much  leisure.  It 
suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  none  of  my  real 
possessions  were  in  that  suitcase.  I'll  not  re- 
member very  long  one  thing  that  I  lost. 

I'll  always  have  the  priceless  memory  of  a 
whole  day  in  the  Lord's  house  with  women  "Who 
look  up,  lift  up  and  lend  a  hand; "  of  a  visit  to  the 
Wren's  Nest,  where  I  refreshed  my  mind  with 
"Brer  Rabbit"  stories  to  tell  to  the  children;  of 
going  out  to  Spelman  Seminary,  where  800 
colored  girls  listened  eagerly  as  I  talked  of  the 
"Upper  Road,"  and  told  them  of  some  of  their 
own  people  whom  I  had  met  and  known,  preach- 
ers and  poets,  editors  and  educators,  bankers  and 

124 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

statesmen,  doctors  and  nurses,  men  and  women, 
who  had  "paid  the  price"  and  had  gained  their 
footholds  on  the  heights;  of  my  visit  to  the 
Federal  Prison,  where  a  friend  of  mine,  a 
Brother  in  Christ,  is  "doing  time."  Tall,  digni- 
fied, stately,  he  reminded  me  of  Sidney  Lanier's 
picture  of  his  ideal  man.  "My  democrat  shall  be 
as  tall  as  the  red  woods  of  California,  his  height 
shall  be  the  height  of  great  resolution  and  love, 
and  faith  and  beauty,  and  knowledge  and  medita- 
tion. His  head  shall  be  forever  among  the  stars; " 
the  memory  of  the  dear  homes  where  I  was  so 
lovingly  cared  for,  the  meeting  of  a  friend  of  my 
childhood,  a  man  I  had  not  seen  for  forty-live 
years — I  called  him  "Freckles"  many  years  be- 
fore Gene  Stratton  Porter  wrote  a  book  by  that 
name. 

I  journeyed  on  to  some  eastern  towns  and 
out  to  Southeastern  College,  where  I  met  the 
young  people  and  had  such  a  good  time  with 
them,  that  I  forgot  I  had  ever  had  a  catas- 
trophe. I  was  not  to  enjoy  for  long  my  freedom 
from  dress,  for  here  were  two  of  those  Atlanta 
women  with  such  an  outfit  as  I  had  never  had. 
The  President  of  that  Capitol  City  Club  took  off 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollar  black  silk  suit  and 
sent  it  to  me.  I  know  she  must  have  read  I  John 
III,  17.  The  other  women  had  gone  to  the  store 
and  provided  every  needful  thing,  beautiful 

125 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

things,  and  I  felt  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba  when 
I  was  arrayed  in  them.  The  Miami,  Florida, 
women  had  heard  of  my  loss,  and  as  I  had  a 
birthday  while  there,  they  took  occasion  to  add 
a  few  more  articles.  Now  I  have  too  much  bric- 
a-brac  for  the  journey.  I  fear  as  I  go  into  a 
church  that  some  one  may  have  respect  for  her 
that  weareth  the  gay  clothing  and  say  unto  her, 
"Sit  thou  here  in  a  good  seat."  Clothes  are  a 
heap  of  trouble.  I  want,  however,  to  be  among 
the  King's  daughters  whose  clothing  is  of 
wrought  gold. 

On  one  trip  East  I  was  in  Washington, 
Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Pittsburgh,  Cleveland 
and  Buffalo.  In  Washington  I  visited  the  Con- 
gressional Library,  was  told  there  were  two 
million  volumes  and  room  for  as  many  more. 
Ten  thousand  new  books  come  from  the  press 
every  twelve  months.  I  am  glad  when  a  friend 
calls  my  attention  to  a  book — can't  read  every- 
thing— and  this  helps  in  selecting.  What  price- 
less treasures  our  books  are!  "A  small  library! 
Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room."  I've  been  giving 
away  some  of  my  books ;  it  has  been  like  parting 
with  old  friends. 

I  spent  an  afternoon  in  the  United  States 
Senate.  Most  of  our  "servants  of  the  public" 
slept  through  a  long  harangue  against  "The 
League  of  Nations." 

126 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

In  Philadelphia  I  learned  a  Civil  War  story 
of  Dr.  Russell  Conwell's  sword,  which  I  find 
delights  the  boys. 

In  all  of  these  places  I  visited  the  churches, 
aiid  met  the  faithful  men  and  women  who  are 
standing  for  the  truest  and  best  in  the  city's  life. 

The  first  of  March,  1918,  I  went  to  Lynn, 
Indiana,  to  see  my  older  sister,  who  had  been 
like  a  mother  to  me.  A  bachelor  brother  had 
lived  with  and  cared  for  her  through  seven  years 
of  her  widowhood.  A  cousin  beloved,  just  my 
age,  was  with  us,  a  strong,  true  helper  as  we 
walked  through  sorrow's  lonely  crypt.  My  sister 
was  ill.  "Her  feet  were  slipping  o'er  the  brink." 
For  four  weeks  we  watched  over  her.  She  talked 
of  the  "green  pastures,"  of  "still  waters";  she 
longed  for  the  rest  that  remaineth  for  the  people 
of  God.  One  Sunday  night,  just  as  the  sun  set  be- 
yond the  Western  horizon,  the  glow  of  life  faded 
into  twilight  shadows,  and  we  knew  she  was 
satisfied,  for  she  had  awakened  "In  His  like- 
ness." 

"Just  think  of  stepping  on  shore  and  finding 

it  Heaven! 
Of  taking  hold  of  a  hand  and  finding  it  is 

God's  hand; 
Of  breathing  new  air  and  finding  it  celestial 

air; 

127 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Of  feeling  invigorated  and  finding  it  im- 
mortality; 

Of  passing  from  storm  and  tempest  to  an  un- 
known calm." 

We  can  never  forget  the  kindness  shown  by 
the  neighbors  and  friends  as  we  kept  the  tireless 
watch.  How  it  eased  the  hurt  to  be  surrounded 
by  people  whose  sympathy  was  so  real  and  gen- 
uine, for  every  one  of  their  homes  had.  been 
touched  by  the  mystery,  Death.  A  common  sor- 
row and  a  universal  hope  of  eternal  life  make 
the  whole  world  akin. 

On  August  13th,  I  received  a  cablegram  from 
Africa:  "Born,  Frances  Elizabeth  Ross,"  my 
first  grandchild.  My  joy  knew  no  bounds.  I 
was  on  the  Atlantic  Coast,  and  as  I  looked  out 
across  the  wide  expanse  of  water,  I  just  wished 
for  a  power  to  transport  me  away  to  that  far  off 
land  where  "Mary  and  the  young  child"  once 
found  shelter.  What  a  mingled  cup  we  quaff  in 
this  life — birth  and  death,  joy  and  sorrow!  Some 
day  we  will  understand  and  bless  the  hand  that 
meted  out  to  us — "That  wove  into  the  garland  of 
our  years  the  cypress  and  the  rue." 

The  winter  of  1919  I  spent  in  the  South,  in 
company  with  Mrs.  C.  N.  Downey.  We  visited 
churches  in  Georgia  and  Florida,  a  land  of  sun- 

128 


BETTY   ROSS 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

shine  and  perfume.  The  orange  groves  were 
surely  beautiful,  and  I  made  friends  that  are  an 
incentive  and  inspiration  to  me. 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  was  so  interested  in  the  new  home  that  the 
National  Benevolent  Association  has  bought  at 
Jacksonville.  Friends  took  me  out  to  see  it.  It 
is  an  ideal  location,  large  brick  building,  which 
is  being  put  up  in  fine  condition  with  all  modern 
conveniences.  Our  old  people  will  revel  in  that 
fresh,  balmy  air,  and  can  live  out  of  doors  to 
their  hearts'  content. 

I  heard  Brother  Mohorter  tell  how  it  broke 
his  heart  to  have  to  turn  away  seventy  old 
people  who  applied  for  admittance  to  our 
homes.  I've  only  seen  one,  one  of  our  very  own, 
in  a  County  House.  Was  reared  a  Catholic;  at 
twenty  years  of  age  united  with  the  Church  of 
Christ,  and  for  thirty-three  years  has  been  true 
to  her  Lord.  Now,  helpless  and  hurt,  she  will  be 
in  a  wheel  chair  all  the  rest  of  her  days.  She 
does  exquisite  needle  work,  embroidery  and 
crochet.  When  I  asked  her  if  the  days  seemed 
long,  her  face  flushed  and  she  answered,  "They 
would,  only  I  am  so  busy.  These  poor  people 
cannot  read  or  write,  many  of  them,  so  I  write 
their  letters  and  make  out  their  laundry  lists 
and  read  to  them."  She  is  an  angel  of  light  right 
where  she  is. 

I  was  troubled,  and  have  had  her  on  my 
130 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

mind.  I  told  a  Bible  class  about  her  and  asked 
if  they  wouldn't  like  to  give  money  to  send  her 
the  World  Call.  They  gave  me  enough  for  two 
papers,  so  I  sent  the  Christian  Evangelist,  too. 
Some  church  people  are  now  trying  to  find  a 
place  in  one  of  our  Homes,  and  there  will  be  no 
lack  of  money  when  it  is  known  and  there  is 
room  for  her. 

This  incident  hurt  me,  but  not  like  hearing 
that  a  Brother  has  gone  wrong,  one  who  lovingly 
called  me  "Mother  Ross"  and  said,  "I'll  be  your 
son  while  Emory  is  away."  Is  there  a  more 
pitiful  sight  in  all  the  world  than  to  see  a  man, 
who  has  been  a  "Minister  of  Christ"  and  who 
has  been  instrumental  in  winning  souls  to  the 
Lord  Jesus,  himself  becoming  a  cast-away,  home 
wrecked,  wife's  heart  broken,  crushed?  Better 
the  grave  that  wounds  the  earth  and  breaks  the 
heart  than  moral  overthrow. 

"There,  Little  Girl,  don't  cry, 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know, 

And  the  rainbow  gleams  of  your  youthful 

dreams, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago, 

But  heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh, 

There,  Little  Girl,  don't  cry." 

Another  one,  humble  servant  of  our  Master, 
who  had  endowed  him  with  extraordinary  brain 

131 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

power,  imagination  and  expression,  uses  these 
talents  to  make  money,  which,  in  its  turn,  ruins 
him,  breaks  up  his  home,  and  he  drifts  away 
from  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  away  from  his  boys, 
away  from  his  God.  The  Church,  which  is  the 
body  of  Christ,  is  smitten,  for  if  one  member 
suffers,  we  all  suffer.  The  Church  cries  out,  as 
did  David  in  his  lament  over  the  death  of  Saul 
and  Jonathan, 

"The  Beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  in  high  places! 
How  are  the  mighty  fallen;  I  am  distressed 
for  thee,  my  brothers!" 

Sin  is  such  a  subtle  thing.  How  we  all  ought 
to  pray,  "O  God,  keep  our  hearts  from  evil  and 
our  lips  from  speaking  guile." 

I  went  into  Arkansas  for  a  month.  I  own 
a  piece  of  land  in  that  State  and  I  had  heard 
stories  of  great  rice  fields.  A  friend  from  the 
Little  Rock  Church  went  with  me  to  look  at  my 
property.  He  told  me  he  had  seen  worse  look- 
ing land  sell  for  five  thousand  dollars  an  acre, 
but  it  was  after  oil  was  struck.  Mine  was  not 
rice  land.  It  is  mine  "To  have  and  to  hold."  No 
sale  for  it. 

I  greatly  enjoyed  my  stay  in  Little  Rock. 
There  are  some  "Kids"  there  that  can't  be  beat 
"Bonner  Pleasant  Kidd"  is  the  man's  name,  and 
I  was  certainly  well  cared  for  in  their  beautiful 

132 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

home.  The  Mission  Girls  honored  me  by  naming 
their  Circle  for  me. 

I  was  in  a  dozen  or  more  towns.  I  never  met 
more  gracious  people.  They  are  very  proud  of 
their  State  and  told  me  it  was  the  only  state 
mentioned  in  the  Bible.  "Now  Noah  opened  the 
'Ark  an  saw'  the  ground."  I  think  the  higher 
critics  would  be  justified  in  pronouncing  this 
rendering  spurious. 

I  came  North  the  first  of  May,  to  get  ready 
to  go  to  Africa  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Barger.  I  had 
been  told  they  would  sail  the  last  of  July.  But 
when  I  reached  Keokuk,  I  found  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Barger,  saying  they  would  sail  the  fourth  of 
June.  I  had  asked  him  what  to  do  to  get  ready, 
and  what  he  told  me  was  a  plenty,  "Be  examined 
by  a  doctor,  vaccinated  for  smallpox,  inoculated 
for  typhoid,  get  permit  from  Belgium  Govern- 
ment, passport  from  Washington,  helmet  from 
London,  dark  heavy  clothes  for  the  sea,  all  white 
dresses  for  Africa,  leather  leggings  and  raincoat 
to  keep  mosquitoes  off  going  up  the  Congo 
River."  Just  think  of  being  in  a  torrid  climate 
wrapped  up  in  raincoat  and  putties!  It  was  this 
last  straw  that  broke  my  determination.  I  could 
have  had  the  white  dresses  all  right,  for  several 
societies  of  women  had  taken  my  measure  and 
had  their  needles  all  threaded.  I  could  have  had 
inside  of  twenty-four  hours  white  clothes 

133 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

enough  to  last  me  three  years.  I  wrestled  over 
the  matter  all  night  long,  "a  la  Jacob."  With 
the  peep  of  day,  my  first  thought,  as  my  eyelids 
opened  was,  "Write  the  book,"  and  right  then 
and  there  the  title  was  given  to  me,  "A  Road  of 
Remembrance."  After  I  had  asked  my  Lord 
whether  I  should  go  or  stay,  it  seemed  I  had  an 
unmistakable  answer  and  I've  never  for  a 
moment  regretted  my  decision,  unless  it  was 
when  the  Foreign  Christian  Missionary  Society 
forwarded  a  cablegram  from  Bolenge:  "Born, 
May  27th,  a  boy;  mother  and  child  doing  well. 
Strongly  urge  mother  to  come  out  with  the  next 
party.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emory  Ross. 

Well,  it  did  seem  as  if  they  needed  a  grand- 
mother to  help  take  care  of  the  babies,  but 
still  I  knew  I  must  not  go.  So  many  friends  ad- 
vised me  against  it;  thought  it  was  a  great  risk. 
The  thing  I  tried  to  decide  was,  where  my  life 
would  count  most  for  Christ  and  the  Church.  I 
am  happy  and  blest  in  writing  this  message  to 
you,  my  friends,  and  I  am  praying  that  the 
lesson  you  may  learn  from  it  is  that 

"'Tis  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the 
way." 

The  month  of  June  I  spent  in  Michigan,  in 
company  with  Miss  Mary  Johnson,  State  Secre- 

134 


ROGER  ROSS 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

tary,  and  Mrs.  Terry  King,  of  Texas.  We  visited 
twenty-seven  churches,  and  attended  State  Con- 
vention at  Owosso.  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
going  to  Kalamazoo,  where  my  bachelor  brother 
lives.  He  entertained  me  in  a  beautiful  hotel, 
the  Rickman.  I  found  a  Bible  in  my  room.  I 
knew  the  Gideons  had  been  there.  They  are  the 
greatest  colporteurs  in  the  world.  Five  hundred 
thousand  copies  they  have  placed  in  hotel  rooms 
and  need  one  million,  five  hundred  thousand 
more  to  complete  their  task. 

Another  hotel,  just  a  block  away,  was  where 
Mr.  Ross  and  I  boarded  the  summer  of  1878, 
and  where  our  Bessie  baby  learned  to  take  her 
first  steps  along  the  side  wall  of  the  long  halls. 
A  colored  boy  named  "Orange"  carried  her  up 
and  down  stairs  for  me. 

Michigan  is  a  great  state,  with  its  Univers- 
ity, its  Battle  Creek  Sanitarium,  and  its  manu- 
facturing plants.  I  don't  know  just  how  many  of 
the  seven  million,  five  hundred  thousand  auto- 
mobiles in  the  United  States  were  made  by 
Henry  Ford  and  the  many  other  factories  in  the 
State.  Some  people  call  Mr.  Ford  a  crank.  Well, 
it  takes  a  crank  to  make  things  go. 

When  I  reached  Chicago,  I  had  expected  to 
go  to  Minneapolis,  for  the  Tipi  Wakin  Club  had 
invited  me  to  be  their  guest  for  two  weeks.  But 
I  could  not  secure  a  berth  and  was  too  tired  to 

135 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

undertake  a  day  trip,  so  had  to  give  it  up.  I  was 
with  them  a  year  ago  at  their  Young  People's 
Training  School  of  Missions,  and  now,  as  I  read 
the  glowing  reports  of  this  summer's  sessions,  I 
am  more  than  sorry  that  I  could  not  have  been 
there.  Last  year  was  the  first  school  of  its  kind 
in  our  Brotherhood.  In  the  two  sessions  there 
have  been  twenty-seven  volunteers  for  Life  Serv- 
ice. It  is  destined  to  become,  in  future  years,  a 
great  recruiting  station. 

Minneapolis  and  St.  Paul  brought  sweet 
memories  to  me.  The  summers  of  1882  and  1883 
Mr.  Ross  and  I  were  at  Lake  Minnetonka,  com- 
ing out  on  the  last  boat  each  time,  then  spent 
most  of  the  two  winters  in  Minneapolis,  board- 
ing on  Nicollet  Avenue.  At  that  time  there  was 
considerable  jealousy  between  the  two  cities,  but 
now  they  are  coming  closer  together  each  year. 
A  visitor  recently  said,  "a  few  more  trolley  wires 
between,  to  act  as  arteries,  and  the  two  will  be 
one  and  will  probably  be  called  "Minnie  Paul." 

Cedar  Rapids  is  one  of  my  stamping 
grounds.  My  heart  beats  quickly  and  fast  when  I 
think  of  what  those  people  have  done  for  me  and 
have  been  to  me.  The  church  building  is  beauti- 
ful and  commodious. 

A  minister  in  Chicago  once  introduced  me: 

"This  is  Mother  Ross,  the  homeless  woman 
with  hundreds  of  homes."  I  have  some  verses  I 

136 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

often  say  to  the  friends  who  make  me  feel  that 
their  home  is  indeed  mine. 

"The  roses  red  upon  my  neighbor's  vine, 
Are  owned  by  him,  but  they  are  also  mine. 
His  was  the  cost,  his  the  labor  too 
But  mine  the  joy,  as  well  as  his,  their  loveli- 
ness to  view. 

"They  bloom  for  me  and  are  for  me  as  fair, 
As  for  the  man  who  gives  them  all  his  care, 
Thus,  I  am  rich  because  a  good  man  grew 
A  rose  clad  vine  for  all  his  neighbors'  view. 

"By  this  I  know  that  others  plant  for  me, 
And  what  they  own,  my  joy  may  also  be, 
Then  why  be  selfish  when  so  much  that's 

fine 
Is    grown    for   you    upon    your    neighbor's 

vine?" 

A  friend  from  a  Western  State,  when  she 
learned  that  I  was  writing  a  book,  wrote  me  to 
be  sure  and  put  in  some  of  my  pretty  quota- 
tions, such  as  my  sunrise  verses. 

"Thy  mercies,  O  Lord,  are  new  every  morn- 
ing and  Thy  loving  kindness  every  night." 

"In  the  morning  will  I  direct  my  thought 
unto  Thee,  and  look  up." 

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A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"Now,  in  the  day's  blue  porch,  look  and 

behold 

Dawn's  newly  kindled  torch,  a  flame  of  gold, 
Over  land  and  sea  it  shines  as  fair 
As  when  His  hand  first  planted  it  there." 

Another  that  I  so  often  say  when  I  awaken 
in  the  morning  is: 

"When  first  the  dawn  streak  up  the  earth 

doth  steal, 

The  birds  outburst  with  all  their  rap- 
turous art; 
Happy  art  thou  if  awakening,  thou  cans't 

feel 

The   same   melodious   impulse   at  thy 
heart." 

This  is  one  that  I  have  verified  the  truth  of 
in  my  own  life: 

"Much  has  been  said,  written  and  read 

Concerning  old  friends  tried  and  true; 
But  a  thought  comes  to  me  of  experience 

wrought, 

That  represents  a  broader  view, 
That  the  same  stamp  of  gold  you  found  in 

the  old 
You'll  find  shining  bright  in  the  new." 

I  do  not  love  my  old  friends  any  the  less, 
138 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

but  the  world  is  full  of  good  folk.    I  have  learned 
as  I  have  traveled  about  that 

"In  Christ  there  is  no  East  or  West, 
In  Him  no  South  or  North; 
But  one  great  fellowship  of  love 
Throughout  the  whole  wide  earth. 

"In  Him  shall  true  hearts  everywhere 
Their  high  communion  find, 
His  service  is  the  golden  cord 
Close  binding  all  mankind. 

"Join  hands,  then,  brothers  of  the 

faith 

What  e'er  your  race  may  be; 
Who  serves  my  Father  as  His  son 
Is  surely  kin  to  me." 

Our  Christianity  knows  no  color,  no  caste, 
no  continent.  This  is  the  verse  that  I  sometimes 
send  to  the  women  on  our  Board,  as  I  think  of 
them  so  constantly  in  service  and  carrying  such 
heavy  loads: 

"I  like  to  feel  in  all  the  work 

Thou  has  to  do, 
That  I,  by  lifting  hands  of  prayer, 

May  help  thee  too." 

Some  favorite  quotations  I  have  used  when 
talking  to  young  people : 

139 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

''Choice  and  Service:  these  are  required  of 
you;  these  only — in  these  are  the  whole  of  life." 

"Make  the  most  of  every  occasion;  you  never 
know  when  Fate  is  standing  around  taking  your 
measure  for  a  bigger  place." 

"Nothing  so  dwarfs  the  mind  as  a  constant 
dwelling  on  trivial  things." 

"Aim  at  the  stars  if  you  only  hit  the  tree 
tops." 

"All  that  is  human  must  retrograde  if  it 
does  not  advance." 

"The  youth  who  does  not  look  up  will  look 
down;  and  the  spirit  that  does  not  soar  is 
destined  perhaps  to  grovel." 

"Our  lives  still  travel  with  us  from  afar,  and 
what  we  have  been  makes  us  what  we  are." 

"There  is  undiscovered  territory  in  every 
man's  life;  blessed  is  he  who  is  the  Columbus  of 
his  own  soul." 

"The  trust  ttat  risks  is  the  life  blood  of 
faith." 

A  good  man  in  Chicago,  Mr.  O.  O.  Kinney, 
has  been  the  first  to  meet  me  and  see  me  through 
the  labyrinths  of  so  many  cities:  Toronto, 
Canada;  Riverside,  California;  Chicago  many 
times,  that  I  told  him  on  this  last  venture 
through  the  Metropolis  that  I  just  knew  that 
when  I  reached  the  "Celestial  City"  I  would  look 
around  for  him.  But  there  will  be  "No  night 

140 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

there."  I'll  never  be  bewildered  or  confused,  and 
not  know  my  way,  "For  the  Lord  God  giveth 
them  light." 

A  young  Swedish  couple  in  Chicago  are  my 
friends,  tried  and  true.  He  is  strong  and  rugged, 
she,  little  and  dainty,  but  very  capable.  I  call 
them,  "Cap'n  Bob"  and  Queen  Esther,"  and  it 
just  warms  the  cockles  of  my  heart  to  see  how 
happy  they  are  together  and  what  promise  of 
life  there  is  before  them. 

From  one  dear  home  in  Chicago,  where  I've 
so  often  found  rest  and  comfort,  has  gone  the 
strong  man  of  the  house;  he  was  one  of  earth's 
brave  toilers,  an  indefatigable  worker.  A  great 
teacher  he  was  in  the  Chicago  Public  Schools — 
never  spared  himself.  No  matter  how  arduous 
his  work  through  the  week,  the  Lord's  Day  found 
Horace  Herrick  in  the  Lord's  house,  faithful  and 
constant.  One  day  the  heart  strings  snapped  and 
an  aged  mother  in  the  nineties  mourns  for  her 
only  son,  the  strong  support  of  her  declining 
years.  A  devoted  wife  and  three  lovely  daughters 
miss  his  coming,  while  an  only  son  in  the  Philip- 
pines will,  when  he  returns  to  the  United  States, 
never  see  the  father  in  his  familiar  place  again. 

"There  is  no  pain,  no  death,  no  tears 
In  that  City  four  square, 

And  they  count  not  time  by  years 
In  that  City  four  square." 

141 


CHAPTER  XI. 

One  of  the  corner  stones  of  Christianity  and 
Civilization  is  the  loving  home.  I've  been  in 
hundreds  of  homes  and  shared  their  comforts, 
their  benefits,  their  ideals,  their  spiritual  atmos- 
phere. I  have  become  so  much  a  part  of  these 
homes,  that  when  any  one  of  them  is  smitten 
with  grief  or  loss,  I  suffer  too;  when  they  re- 
joice, I  rejoice,  and  when  they  weep,  I  weep. 

I  love  a  trip  on  the  C.  B.  &  Q.,  South  out  of 
Chicago,  not  that  the  trains  are  palatial  or  ele- 
gant, but  because  they  run  for  miles  along  the 
Mississippi  River.  About  nine  o'clock  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  bright  lights  extending  across  the 
waters  and  I  know  it  is  the  famous  Dam,  a  rival 
to  Panama.  They  call  this  Dam  a  mighty  piece 
of  construction  work.  All  I  know  is  that  the 
Mississippi  Power  Company  gathered  up  and 
held  the  blue  waters  and  made  a  utilitarian 
drudge  for  all  this  Mississippi  Valley.  I  wonder 
if,  when  the  St.  Louis  people  turn  on  their  elec- 
tric lights,  they  think  of  this  servant  up  there  at 
Keokuk,  who  works  for  them  day  and  night.  I 
fall  to  musing.  That  River  to  me  becomes  the 
great  Atlantic,  or  Pacific  Ocean.  On  the  distant 
opposite  shores  I  see  just  a  few  lights.  It  seems 
dark,  as  if  they  needed  more  light.  Then  I  see 

142 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

this  long  row  of  lights  across  and  I  think  they 
are  the  reinforcements — new  Missionaries — 
forty-nine  of  them  right  now — who  are  going 
out  to  help  the  few  who  are  already  over  there, 
praying  day  and  night  for  more  workers  for  the 
vineyard.  I  think  of  the  old  hymn: 

"O  the  lights  along  the  shore 
That  never  grow  dim, 
Never,  never  grow  dim, 
Are  the  souls  that  are  aflame 
With  the  love  of  Jesus'  name, 
And  they  guide  us,  yes,  they  guide  us 
unto  Him." 

Jesus  said  to  His  disciples,  "Ye  are  the  light 
of  the  world." 

One  of  the  last  words  that  Theodore  Roose- 
velt wrote  was  this:  "All  who  give  service  and 
stand  ready  for  service  are  torch  bearers.  We 
run  with  the  torch  until  we  fall,  content  if  we 
can  pass  it  on  to  the  hands  of  others." 

The  shrill  shriek  of  the  whistle  arouses  me 
from  my  reverie  and  I  know  I  am  at  Keokuk, 
Iowa,  "The  Gate  City." 

Once  when  Mark  Twain  lived  in  Honolulu, 
he  directed  a  friend,  who  was  coming  to  visit, 
"Take  the  boat  at  San  Francisco  and  I'm  the 
fourth  house  to  the  right." 

I'll  say  to  you,  my  friends,  "Cross  the  Missis- 

143 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

sippi  River  at  Keokuk  and  I'm  at  the  fourth 
house  to  the  right,"  a  tall,  three-story  brick 
house,  gray,  with  jib  windows  and  long,  narrow 
verandahs.  The  paint  is  all  wrinkled  like  the 
skin  of  an  old  man's  face.  There  are  fifteen 
rooms  in  the  house.  The  inside  walls  are  brick, 
fifteen  inches  in  width.  There  are  massive  cup- 
boards built  into  the  wall  and  four  old-fashioned 
fire  places.  I  call  the  house  "Old  Baldy."  I  don't 
know  why  there  is  an  old  iron  paling  fence  with 
sharp  points  on  every  paling,  unless  they  were 
to  impale  wandering  robbers  and  cut-throats  in 
those  primitive  days.  A  conservatory  on  the 
East  looks  as  if  it  might  have  sheltered  a  cen- 
tury plant  in  full  bloom.  Built  for  all  time ;  stood 
for  all  time,  "  Since  the  memory  of  man  runneth 
not  to  the  contrary." 

The  mansion  with  a  cupola  or  mansard  roof 
was  the  triumph  of  the  architect  in  those  days, 
so  there  was  built  by  some  aspiring  magnates  on 
the  street,  the  grey  brick  with  a  cupola,  and  just 
opposite,  a  red  brick  with  the  mansard  roof.  In 
this  grey  brick  live  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  L.  Aldrich 
and  their  two  daughters,  Margaret  and  Dorothy. 
Now  it  so  happens  that  these  young  ladies  are 
very  partial  to  antiques  and  they  persuaded  their 
father,  four  years  ago,  to  buy  this  old  house.  It 
is  well  adapted  to  their  needs.  They  can  each 
have  three  rooms  apiece,  and  then  some.  A 

144 


"OLD  BALDY." 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

brass  kneading  bowl  that  has  been  in  the 
Aldrich  family  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  graces 
an  old-fashioned  mahogany  table  in  the  parlor, 
while  the  black  hair-cloth  furniture  and  gilt 
framed  mirror  that  reaches  almost  to  the  ceiling 
make  one  think  of  the  styles  of  the  days  of 
George  and  Martha  at  Mt.  Vernon.  The  whole 
family  is  musical.  Piano,  violin  and  flute  are  in 
evidence  from  four  to  seven  hours  every  day. 
Margaret  writes.  Her  den  is  up  in  that  cupola. 
A  long  stairway,  like  Jacob's  ladder,  leads  up  to 
this  aerial  chamber.  Away  up  there  above  the 
city's  dirt  and  din  she  writes  feature  stories  for 
Keokuk  and  Des  Moines  papers.  With  all  the 
mystic  and  endearing  silences  of  that  Upper 
Room  the  muse  may  some  day  touch  her  pen 
and  there  will  issue  a  great  epic  or  story  or 
poem.  She  reminds  me  of  Hawthorne's  "Hilda 
and  her  Tower"  and  the  white  doves  circling 
about,  only  here  it  is  just  the  murmuring 
pigeons. 

Dorothy  keeps  her  feet  on  terra  firma,  but 
loves  her  violin  and  is  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy  when 
practicing  Kreisler's  "Indian  Lament,"  or  Ovid 
Musin's  Mazurka,  or  singing  "I  Am  My  Daddy's 
Sweetheart." 

The  mother  finds  equal  joy  in  playing  the 
accompaniments.  The  indulgent  father  fur- 
nishes all  the  equipment  and  pays  gladly  for  the 

145 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

lessons  for  the  training  of  these  daughters. 
They  in  turn  are  devoted  to  their  parents  and  do 
not  fail  to  constantly  show  their  appreciation. 
Mr.  Aldrich  deals  in  real  estate  to  make  ex- 
penses, but  his  business  is  to  serve  the  King.  He 
has  a  Sunday  School  class  of  eighty  men  and 
women  and  prepares  his  lessons  with  as  much 
care  as  he  would  make  a  land  contract. 

Into  this  happy  group  I've  come  to  make  my 
home.  We  have  delightful  evenings  on  the  east 
porch,  looking  out  over  the  river  and  watching 
the  brilliantly  lighted  boats  as  they  go  and  come 
with  their  merry  excursionists.  I  am  taken  into 
all  the  confidences  of  the  family  life  and  made 
to  feel  in  every  way  that  I  am  one  of  this  house- 
hold. There  is  most  delightful  fellowship  in  the 
churches  of  Keokuk.  The  people  of  all  the  com- 
munions are  of  one  heart  and  purpose  to  bring 
in  the  kingdom  in  greater  power  and  beauty,  and 
work  together  harmoniously  to  that  end.  I  have 
found  there  most  congenial  and  helpful  friends. 

"It  is  a  joy  to  find 
At  every  turning  of  the  road, 

The  strong  arms  of  comrades  kind, 
To  help  me  onward  with  my  load. 

And  since  I  have  no  gold  to  give 
And  only  love  can  make  amends, 

My  one  prayer  is,  while  I  live 
Lord,  make  me  worthy  of  my  friends." 
146 


EMORY  AND   MYRTA  ROSS,   BETTY   AND   ROGER, 
AT  HOME  IN  1923 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

Now  I  am  at  the  International  Convention 
of  the  Churches  of  Christ  at  St.  Louis.  The 
Lord's  hosts  are  gathering  from  the  East  and 
the  West,  from  the  North  and  the  South.  It  is  a 
blessed  privilege  to  look  into  the  faces  of  these, 
my  brethren,  and  feel  in  their  warm  hand  shakes 
the  heart  throbbings  of  "good  will,"  as  we  labor 
together  in  this  common  cause  of  our  Lord. 

Word  has  just  reached  us  that  the  bells  of 
heaven  have  rung  for  our  dear  Mrs.  E.  M.  Bow- 
man, and  she  has  gone  away  to  behold  the 
Father's  face.  Hers  was  a  choice  sweet  spirit. 
She  has  brightened  and  gladdened  life's  way 
for  us. 

"She  is  not  dead,  she  is  just  away; 

With  a  cheery  smile  and  a  wave  of  her  hand, 

She  has  wandered  away  to  the  unknown 

land, 

And  left  us  here  wondering  how  very  fair 
It  must  be  since  she  entered  there." 

I  am  alone  this  afternoon  while  the  thou- 
sands are  at  the  Coliseum,  remembering  our  Lord 
in  partaking  of  the  emblems  of  His  broken  body 
and  shed  blood.  Alone,  and  yet  not  alone,  for 
there  is  One  who  walks  with  me  like  unto  the 
Son  of  man. 

147 


A  Road  of  Remembrance 

"O,  He  walks  with  me  and  He  talks  with  me 

And  He  tells  me  I  am  His  own, 
And  the  Joys  we  share  as  we  tarry  there 

None  other  has  ever  known." 

When  that  great  Scottish  Presbyterian  min- 
ister, Samuel  Rutherford,  was  thrown  into 
prison  for  preaching  what  he  thought  was  the 
truth,  he  said  he  thought  about  Jesus  until  every 
stone  in  the  prison  wall  gleamed  red  like  a  ruby. 
He  was  communing  with  his  Lord. 

I  have  often  thought  of  the  Home  over 
there, 

"And  the  building  of  the  wall  of  it  was  of 
jasper;  and  the  city  was  pure  gold,  like  unto 
clear  glass;  and  the  twelve  gates  were  of 
pearl  and  the  street  of  the  city  was  pure 
gold." 

And  I  think  of  my  friends  who  are  waiting  just 
round  the  bend  in  the  road  to  welcome  me  into 
that  City  which  hath  foundations,  to  join  the 
great  company  who  serve  Him  day  and  night; 
then  I  will  know  that  I've  come, 

"To  the  end  of  the  road  of  that  Golden  Town 
Where  the  Golden  Houses  are." 


148 


A     000023  440     1 


